Chapter 9

MISDIRECTED LETTERS

The night so unhappy to Cornelia was very much more unhappy to Hyde. He
had sent his letter to her before eleven in the morning, and if Fortune
were kind to him, he expected an answer soon after leaving Madame
Jacobus. Her departure from New York depressed him very much. She had
been the good genius of his love, but he told himself that it had now
"grown to perfection, and could, he hoped, stand in its own strength."
Restlessly he watched the hours away, now blaming, now excusing, anon
dreaming of his coming bliss, then fidgeting and fearing disappointment
from being too forward in its demanding. When noon passed, and one
o'clock struck, he rang for some refreshment; for he guessed very
accurately the reason of delay.

"Cornelia has been visiting or shopping," he thought; "and if it were
visiting, no one would part with her until the last moment; so then if
she get home by dinner-time it is as much as I can expect. I may as well
eat, and then wait in what patience I can, another hour or two--yes, it
will be two hours. I will give her two hours--for she will be obliged to
serve others before me. Well, well, patience is my penance."

But in truth he expected the letter to be in advance of three o'clock.
"Twenty words will answer me," he thought; "yes, ten words; and she will
find or make the time to write them;" and between this hope and the
certainty of three o'clock, he worried the minutes away until three
struck. Then there was a knock at his door and he went hastily to answer
it. Balthazar stood there with the longed-for letter in his hand. He
felt first of all that he must be quite alone with it. So he turned the
key and then stood a moment to examine the outside. A letter from
Cornelia! It was a joy to see his own name written by her hand. He
kissed the superscription, and kissed the white seal, and sank into his
chair with a sigh of delight to read it.

In a few moments a change beyond all expression came over his face--
perplexity, anger, despair cruelly assailed him. It was evident that
some irreparable thing had ruined all his hopes. He was for some moments
dumb. He felt what he could not express, for a great calamity had opened
a chamber of feeling, which required new words to explain it. This
trance of grief was followed by passionate imprecations and reproaches,
wearing themselves away to an utter amazement and incredulity. He had
flung the letter to the floor, but he lifted it again and went over the
cruel words, forcing himself to read them slowly and aloud. Every period
was like a fresh sentence of death.

"'YOUR LETTER HAS GIVEN ME VERY GREAT SORROW;' let me die if that is not
what she says; 'VERY