Pile after pile of papers and letters of the late Earl and his Countess
had passed through her hands from chaos to order. As she had read, hour
after hour, the diaries of the cold, blue-eyed woman, Sybil Eglington,
who had lived without love of either husband or son, as they, in turn,
lived without love of each other, she had been overwhelmed by the
revelation of a human heart, whose powers of expression were smothered by
a shy and awkward temperament. The late Countess's letters were the
unclothing of a heart which had never expanded to the eyes of those whose
love would have broken up a natural reserve, which became at last a proud
coldness, and gave her a reputation for lack of feeling that she carried
to her grave.
In the diaries which Hylda unearthed--the Countess had died suddenly--was
the muffled cry of a soul tortured through different degrees of
misunderstanding; from the vague pain of suffered indifference, of being
left out of her husband's calculations, to the blank neglect narrowing
her life down to a tiny stream of duty, which was finally lost in the
sands.
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