But yet his absence, and the shortness of
those little notes, which came perhaps once a fortnight, did tell upon her
in opposition to her own convictions. Each note as it came was answered--
instantly; but she would not write except when the notes came. She would
not seem to reproach him by writing oftener than he wrote. When he had
given her so much, and she had nothing but her confidence to give in
return, would she stint him in that? There can be no love, she said,
without confidence, and it was the pride of her heart to love him.
The circumstances of her present life were desperately weary to her. She
could hardly understand why it was that Lady Linlithgow should desire her
presence. She was required to do nothing. She had no duties to perform,
and, as it seemed to her, was of no use to any one. The countess would not
even allow her to be of ordinary service in the house. Lady Linlithgow, as
she had said of herself, poked her own fires, carved her own meat, lit her
own candles, opened and shut the doors for herself, wrote her own letters,
and did not even like to have books read to her. She simply chose to have
some one sitting with her to whom she could speak and make little cross-
grained, sarcastic, and ill-natured remarks.
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