The contents of the envelope, which had been redirected and forwarded by the secretary of the hospital, were simple enough.
Sir Roderick wrote, dating from the Pinewood, near F——, Surrey, as follows:—
“My good young Friend,—It must be about time for you to claim a holiday. Let it be spent here. You will like the place; that it will be congenial I feel sure. Let me know day and hour, and the carriage will meet you at F—— Station.
“Yours, Roderick Pym.”
Hugh read it twice, thrice. At first, he had (so he thought) been full of self-gratulation that he had so complete an excuse to decline the invitation as this, that his furlough from hospital, spent in his own home, was nearly at an end. But, as he paced the garden walk, he wondered whether, in reality, he had won over Sir Roderick to his views upon the subject of that letter to the weekly journal Speculative Thought, or whether the baronet had written it in one of his sardonic humours as a sort of grim jest. He would like to know. Perhaps Sir Roderick had been laughing at him in his sleeve during those long talks in the hospital. Gruesome thought, not to be borne! But he would like to know.
“I should do no harm by running down for a day,” he thought. “I could even leave before the dinner hour, and not have to encounter Lady Pym.”
The portrait in the locket, no less than the silence on the subject of Sir Roderick’s young wife on the part of the housekeeper and Mr. Edmund Pym, had prejudiced Hugh greatly against the lady to whom he had indited that telegram. Sir Roderick’s contempt for women, too, induced the idea that L. Pym, however charming she might be, was not a woman to deserve either respect or love.
Seldom vacillating, to-day Hugh was as irresolute as any woman. One minute he resolved to accept the invitation, the next he told himself it would be better to let it stand over for the present. At last he got angry with himself, went into the house, asked Maud if he might use her davenport in the drawing-room, and presently posted a letter to Sir Roderick with his own hands, lest once more he should change his mind. In this he accepted the invitation to the Pinewood for the following Saturday morning.
Why he was reluctant to enlighten his family on this subject, he could not for the life of him make out. But whenever he neared it in conversation, he felt uncomfortable. The days passed. He told them all he should return to town the following Friday. But of the projected visit to the Pinewood he said not one word.
The sweet summer days came and went, one by one. Once more Hugh said good-bye, perhaps for months, to the old garden; had a farewell fish in the river, and after a reluctant parting with father and sisters, returned—to meet his strange fate.