The cry came from her very heart.  For once Wilfrid had been overcome, had thrown off his rather sad-coloured wooing, had uttered such words as her soul yearned for.  Yet she had scarcely time to savour her rapture before that jealousy of the past mingled itself with the sensation.  Even such words as these he must have used to her, and had they not perchance come more readily to his lips?  Was he by nature so reserved?  Or, the more probable thing, was it that she failed at other times to inspire him?  How had she been used to behave, to speak?

In her incessant brooding upon the details of Wilfrid’s first affection, Beatrice had found one point which never lost its power to distract her; it was the thought of all the correspondence that must have passed between him and Emily.  What had become of those letters?  Had they been mutually returned?  It was impossible to discover.  Not even to her aunt could she put such a question as that; and it might very well be that Mrs. Baxendale knew nothing certainly.  If the story as she, Beatrice, had heard it was quite accurate, it seemed natural to suppose that Emily had requested to have her letters returned to her when she declared that the engagement must be at an end; but Wilfrid had refused to accept that declaration, and would he not also have refused to let the writing which was so precious to him leave his hands?  In that case he probably had the letters still; perhaps he still read them at times.  Would it be possible, even after marriage, to speak of such a subject with Wilfrid?  She had constantly tried to assure herself that, even if he had kept the pledges through all these years, a sense of honour would lead Wilfrid to destroy them when he gave and received a new love.  In moments when it was her conscious effort to rise to noble heights, to be as pure a woman as that other—­for Beatrice never sought the base comfort of refusing to her rival that just homage—­she ’would half persuade herself that no doubt lingered in her mind; it was right to destroy the letters, and whatever was right Wilfrid must have done.  But she could not live at all hours in that thin air; the defects of her blood were too enduring.  Jealousy came back from its brief exile, and was more insinuating than ever, its suggestions more maddening.  By a sort of reaction, these thoughts assailed her strongly in the moments which followed her outburst of passion and Wilfrid’s response.  Yet she could not—­durst not—­frame words to tell him of her suffering.  It was to risk too much; it might strike a fatal blow at his respect for her.  Even those last words she had breathed with dread, involuntarily; already, perhaps, she had failed in the delicacy he looked for, and had given him matter for disagreeable thought as soon as he left her.  She rose at length from her kneeling attitude, and leaned back in her chair with a look of trouble scarcely veiled.

Wilfrid did not notice it; he had already begun to think of other matters.