Nothing could have been more discouraging than the eldest Miss Tresilian’s account of her health, but as her detailed descriptions of the torment she endured from rheumatism, nervous tic, spasm, and insomnia were interspersed with the latest Bath on-dits. and some animadversions on the wretched cards she had held at the whist-table, Miss Elinor Tresilian’s withers remained unwrung. She gathered that Clara was contriving to amuse herself tolerably well; was relieved to read no very serious criticism of the indigent lady engaged to act as companion to the invalid, and got up to place the letter in her writing-bureau. She never did so. No sooner had she raised the lid of the bureau than she found herself staring down at a letter addressed to herself in Lucy’s handwriting. Clara’s missive dropped to the floor, and Miss Tresilian, with a premonition of disaster, snatched up her niece’s letter, and tore off the wafer that sealed it.

Dear, dearest aunt, she read. This will come as a Shock to you, and I can only implore you to forgive me, and to understand (as I am persuaded you will) the Exigency of my Situation, nothing less than which could have prevailed upon me to act in a manner as Repugnant to me as, alas, it will be to you. By the time your eyes alight on these lines I shall be many miles distant, and when I Cast myself at your feet to beg your Pardon it will be as the Bride of my Adored Arthur. Oh, my dear aunt, believe that I have not reached this Momentous Decision without an Agonizing Struggle, for to Approach the Altar without your Blessing, or your presence to support me at that Solemn Moment, so sinks my spirits that only my Conviction that your Refusal to sanction my Engagement sprang not from your Heart but from your sense of Propriety gives me courage to pursue a Line of Conduct which must Shock you and all theworld. My only Comfort (besides the Bliss of being united to the Best and Noblest of men) is that You cannot be held accountable, even by Lord Iver, for what I must call (though my hand shrinks from penning the Dreadful Syllables’) my Elopement. . . .