She sat down to write to the only friend she had. But her trouble froze
her brain. She had not been able to put the case plainly. Words failed
her.
She was not at any time fluent with her pen. She now found herself
really unable to convey any intelligible account of what had happened.
To state clearly all that she knew so that the conclusion should be
obvious and patent to the reader would have been at all times
difficult, and was now impossible. She could only confine herself to a
simple vague statement. "I can only say that from all I have seen and
heard I have reasons for believing that Lord Harry is not dead at all."
She felt that this was a feeble way of summing up, but she was not at
the moment equal to more. "When I write again, after I have heard from
you, I will tell you more. To-day I cannot. I am too much weighed down.
I am afraid of saying too much. Besides, I have no money, and must look
for work. I am not anxious, however, about my own future, because my
lady will not forsake me. I am sure of that. It is my anxiety about her
and the dreadful secrets I have learned which give me no rest."
Several days passed before the answer came. And then it was an answer
which gave her little help. "I have no good news for you," she said.
"Mr. Mountjoy continues weak. Whatever your secret, I cannot ask you to
communicate it to him in his present condition. He has been grieved and
angry beyond all belief by Lady Harry's decision to rejoin her husband.
It is hard to understand that a man should be so true a friend and so
constant a lover. Yet he has brought himself to declare that he has
broken off all friendly relations with her. He could no longer endure
London. It was associated with thoughts and memories of her. In spite
of his weak condition, he insisted on coming down here to his Scotch
villa. Ill as he was, he would brook no delay. We came down by very
easy stages, stopping at Peterborough, York, Durham, Newcastle, and
Berwick--at some places for one night, and others for more. In spite of
all my precautions, when we arrived at the villa he was dangerously
exhausted. I sent for the local doctor, who seems to know something. At
all events, he is wise enough to understand that this is not a case for
drugs. Complete rest and absence from all agitating thoughts must be
aimed at. Above all, he is not to see the newspapers. That is
fortunate, because, I suppose, Lord Harry's death has been announced in
them, and the thought that his former mistress is a widow might excite
him very dangerously. You will now understand why I left that message
at the hotel for you, and why I have not shown him your letter. I told
him, it is true, that you had returned without finding your mistress.
'Speak no more to me of Lady Harry,' he replied irritably. So I have
said no more. As for money, I have a few pounds by me, which are at
your service. You can repay me at some future time. I have thought of
one thing--that new Continental paper started by Lord Harry. Wherever
she may be, Lady Harry is almost sure to see that. Put an advertisement
in it addressed to her, stating that you have not heard of her address,
but that you yourself will receive any letter sent to some post-office
which you can find. I think that such an advertisement will draw a
reply from her, unless she desires to remain in seclusion."