When the Monday came there was much to be done and to be thought of at Bowick. Mrs. Peacocke on that day received a letter from San Francisco, giving her all the details of the evidence that her husband had obtained, and enclosing a copy of the photograph. There was now no reason why she should not become the true and honest wife of the man whom she had all along regarded as her husband in the sight of God. The writer declared that he would so quickly follow his letter that he might be expected home within a week, or, at the longest, ten days, from the date at which she would receive it. Immediately on his arrival at Liverpool, he would, of course, give her notice by telegraph.
When this letter reached her, she at once sent a message across to Mrs. Wortle. Would Mrs. Wortle kindly come and see her? Mrs. Wortle was, of course, bound to do as she was asked, and started at once. But she was, in truth, but little able to give counsel on any subject outside the one which was at the moment nearest to her heart. At one o'clock, when the boys went to their dinner, Mary was to instruct her father as to the purport of the letter which was to be sent to Lord Bracy,—and Mary had not as yet come to any decision. She could not go to her father for aid;—she could not, at any rate, go to him until the appointed hour should come; and she was, therefore, entirely thrown upon her mother. Had she been old enough to understand the effect and the power of character, she would have known that, at the last moment, her father would certainly decide for her,—and had her experience of the world been greater, she might have been quite sure that her father would decide in her favour. But as it was, she was quivering and shaking in the dark, leaning on her mother's very inefficient aid, nearly overcome with the feeling that by one o'clock she must be ready to say something quite decided.
And in the midst of this her mother was taken away from her, just at ten o'clock. There was not, in truth, much that the two ladies could say to each other. Mrs. Peacocke felt it to be necessary to let the Doctor know that Mr. Peacocke would be back almost at once, and took this means of doing so. "In a week!" said Mrs. Wortle, as though painfully surprised by the suddenness of the coming arrival.
"In a week or ten days. He was to follow his letter as quickly as possible from San Francisco."
"And he has found it all out?"
"Yes; he has learned everything, I think. Look at this!" And Mrs. Peacocke handed to her friend the photograph of the tombstone.
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Wortle. "Ferdinand Lefroy! And this was his grave?"
"That is his grave," said Mrs. Peacocke, turning her face away.
"It is very sad; very sad indeed;—but you had to learn it, you know."
"It will not be sad for him, I hope," said Mrs. Peacocke. "In all this, I endeavour to think of him rather than of myself. When I am forced to think of myself, it seems to me that my life has been so blighted and destroyed that it must be indifferent what happens to me now. What has happened to me has been so bad that I can hardly be injured further. But if there can be a good time coming for him,—something at least of relief, something perhaps of comfort,—then I shall be satisfied."