Life for the first time was
open before her, and the music which began to fill her ears, the
splendour which shone into her eyes, gradually availed to still that
inner voice which had so long spoken to her in dark admonishings.
She could not resign herself absolutely to the new delight; it was
still a conflict; but from the conflict itself she derived a kind of
joy, born of the strength of her imagination.
Yes, there was one portion of the past which dwelt with her, and by
degrees busied her thoughts more and more. The correspondence with
Waymark had ceased, and by her own negligence. In those days of
mental disturbance which preceded her return to London, his last
letter had reached her, and this she had not replied to. It had been
her turn to write, but she had not felt able to do so; it had seemed
to her, indeed, that, with her return home, the correspondence would
naturally come to an end; with a strange ignorance of herself, such
as now and then darkens us, she had suddenly come to attach little
value to the connection. Not improbably, Waymark's last two letters
had been forced and lacking in interest. He had never said anything
which could be construed into more than an expression of friendly
interest, or intellectual sympathy.
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