This
channel for the assuagement of his anxieties was closed. The immense
pile of the rest of his correspondence was at last sorted. He knew most
of the writings, and the few he was doubtful about he opened--but none
were from his love. So he gave them all back to Arabella, and turned his
face from the light physically exhausted and with a storm of pain in his
heart.
Mrs. Cricklander had carefully gone through each post as it came, and
longed to destroy one or two suspicious-looking communications she saw
in the same female handwriting--from his old friend Lady Durend, if she
had known!--but she dared not, and indeed was not really much disturbed.
She had laid her own plans with too great a nicety and felt perfectly
sure of the ultimate result of their action. Arabella was each day sent
up with the subtlest messages to the poor invalid, which her honor made
her unwillingly repeat truthfully.
Cecilia Cricklander was an angel of sweet, watchful care, it seemed, and
John Derringham really felt deeply grateful to her.
Then the moment came when she decided she would see him.
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