Waggett the nurse had an inarticulate understanding with her master, and all this packing, letter-writing, and hours of weeping in the nursery, excited her suspicions,—and could mean but one thing. When Cara was asleep, Miss Waggett slipped down to the village post office and sent a telegram to Mr. Blagdon’s London address, which said, ‘Your presence required urgently.’
Blagdon, who was on the eve of a trip to Paris, returned by the first train—actually passing his wife on her flight to London. When, in a ferocious temper, he arrived at Sharsley, he was informed that Mrs. Blagdon was not at home, had left at twelve o’clock in the village fly, taking luggage with her. Then a letter addressed to him was produced; it had been placed in a conspicuous position on the smoking-room chimney-piece.
He snatched this from the old man-servant’s hand, tearing it open as he walked away; then, glancing over it, he slapped his great thigh and exclaimed exultantly:
“By Gad, she’s done it! She’s done it!”
The letter began:
“Hugo,
“I am to-day leaving this house for ever. To me it has been a miserable home. I can no longer endure your neglect and cruelty. I am going to Lancelot Lumley, and you are free to take any steps you please. I shall be thankful to be released from you, and you, I know, will be glad to be rid of me, since you have so often told me that you wished I were dead. Well, in future we shall be dead to one another. I need not ask you to be good to Cara; it breaks my heart to leave her, but it breaks my heart to stay.
“Letty.”
“By Gad!” he repeated, “this is great news! Dead to me—I should say so, the little puling fool!”
In a condition of supreme satisfaction he went to his writing-table and filled a number of telegraph forms: one of these was a long one to his lawyer, others were addressed to his mother, his sister, and to several of his chief friends. In short, a dozen wires carrying the startling news were promptly despatched from Sharsley Post Office.