"Not your fault, child," said her father. "The fault did not lie with you, but with that unfortunate young man, for whom I am truly sorry. Don't be morbid, Lesley; look things straight in the face, and don't blame yourself unless you are perfectly sure that you deserve to be blamed."
And there the conference ended, for Miss Brooke arrived at that moment, and Lesley thought it advisable to leave the choice of a subject of conversation in her hands. Caspar had many visitors that day, and many letters of advice and condolence, for few men were blessed—or cursed—with as many friends as he. Among the letters that reached him was a note without signature, which he read hastily, and as hastily concealed when he had read it. This note was written in uneven, crooked characters, as if the writer's hand had shaken as she wrote, and ran as follows:—
"I ought not to write, but how can I keep silence? There is nothing that I am not capable of bearing for my friends. If you will but confide in me—I am ready to do, to bear, to suffer anything—to forgive anything. Let me see you: I can then speak more freely. If you should be set at liberty in a day or two, I shall hear. You can then come to me: if not, I will come to you. But you need have no fear for me: I shall take means to prevent recognition."
The envelope was plain and of common texture; but the note-paper was hand-made; with a faint, fine odor as of some sweet-smelling Eastern wood, and bore in one corner the letters "R. R.," intertwined in deep blue tints. There was no doubt in Caspar's mind as to the person from whom it came.
He received it about three o'clock in the afternoon. If he wished to decline the proposed interview, he knew that he must write at once. In his heart he knew also that it would be better for him and better for her that the interview should be declined. What had he to do with Rosalind Romaine? He was accused of murdering her brother: it was not seemly that she should see him—even although the world were not to know of the visit. The world would know sooner or later—that was the worst of it: ultimately, the world knows everything. But why should she wish to see him? Had she information to impart? If she had, it would be foolish, from merely conventional reasons, to refuse her admittance, supposing that she really wished to come. And in a day or two at most he would certainly be able to go, if necessary, to her.
But the fact was, he did not believe that she had any information to impart. She did not say so. Probably she only wished to express her faith in him, and to assure him of her friendship. Rosalind had been his friend through many a long year. She had always shown herself kind and sympathetic—in spite of one or two interludes of coldness and general oddity which Caspar had never felt able to understand. It would be pleasant enough to hear her say that she trusted him—he could not help feeling that. For, although he had passed the matter off very lightly when talking to Lesley, he was secretly hurt at the absence of any message from his wife. He could almost have worked himself into a rage at the thought of it. "Does she, too, think me guilty?" he asked himself. "She ought to know me better, although she does not love me! She ought to know. And she does know, but she is too cold and too proud to say so. Poor, warm-hearted Lesley has tried to win her sympathy for me and failed. Well, I never expected otherwise: she never gave me what I wanted—sympathy, understanding, or love! And how can she blame me"—the thought stole unawares into his mind—"if I turn for sympathy to one who offers it?"
Yes, Rosalind would sympathize, and there would be no harm in listening to her gentle words. He had the pen in his hand, paper and ink before him: a word would be enough, if he wished to stay her visit. But he would not write it: if she liked to come, she might come—he would be glad to see her. Besides, her letter wanted explanation: for what had she to
forgive?
He pushed the writing materials away from him, and went to the fireplace, where a small fire was burning very dimly. The day was cloudy, and the afternoon was drawing in. He crushed the coal with the heel of his boot in order to make a flame leap up; then leaned his elbow on the narrow mantelpiece and gazed down into the glowing embers.
The door opened and closed again behind him, but at first he did not look up. He thought that the attendant had come to light the gas or bring him some tea. But when he heard no further sound, he suddenly stirred and looked up; and in the dim light he saw beside him the figure of a woman, cloaked and veiled.