He took it up indifferently. "It is Mainwaring's writing," he thought listlessly, and had almost a mind to put it by until a more propitious moment—until he had written that letter to Adèle Lamien demanding an interview, upon the wording of which it had taken him so long to decide. John Mainwaring's communication could not possibly be of such importance as to demand instant attention; it had waited several days as it was, it might wait a few hours longer without disaster.
And so it is with the wisest and most sagacious of us. We pray on bended knees, and with streaming eyes, for one, only one chance, one opportunity more wherein to work out our salvation; and then when the grace is given we reject it because, forsooth, it comes to us in so accustomed and natural a guise we cannot believe in its efficacy.
How should Philip, hesitating and uncertain, holding Mainwaring's letter in his hand, guess that within the long business envelope lay the solution of all that was most enigmatic to him—the key to what was now a locked book to his perceptions?
Do any of us ever know the exact moment when we stand upon a mental precipice, or realise how far our next step may carry us on to our doom?
He broke the seal at last, more from habit than impatience, and glanced carelessly down at the page as he unfolded it. It was not a long letter, only a few lines written hastily across one side; but had it been a printed folio of engrossing depth it could not have riveted Philip's attention more closely. The candles, flaming up with a sudden assured brilliancy, shone full upon his face, and upon the startled, excited, incredulous expression which spread over it as he read.
It was a long time, many moments, that he stood thus, reading and re-reading John Mainwaring's hurried lines, and when at last he raised his head and threw back his shoulders, he took a long deep breath as of one who, but lately spent and exhausted, sees opening before him a fair plain, smiling and verdant, wherein his tired nature may refresh its weary faculties.
"If this is true," he said, half aloud, "why then——" and finished his soliloquy with a smile.
Half an hour later Mr. Tremain was ringing the bell at Mrs. Newbold's door, and somewhat astonished the servant by the vehemence of his demand for her mistress.
"Tell her I must see her," he said, "it is of the utmost importance;" then he pushed by the maid and made his way to Esther's boudoir.
He found the room empty, though traces of late occupancy were apparent in a book tossed carelessly down on the tumbled cushions of the couch, and a long strip of artistic needlework, in which the needle was standing upright, and a tiny gold thimble, that had fallen down and lay beside a "Kate Greenaway" picture book.