“Lord Skene,” I said low, “Miss Christmas has told me. You meant her to, I suppose?”
He hesitated an instant; then pushed an open letter towards me; but in the act withdrew it.
“One moment, my boy,” he said. “There are things that—the essentials are all you’ll need. Oblige me by reading only what I underline.”
He was busy a little, with a shaking hand; then thrust the letter towards me once more.
“There,” he said. “You’re her son anyhow. You’ll spare me any comments, Gaskett, but such as bear strictly upon the question of her flight and its reasons. I think it likely you’ll know more about those than I do. There seems a coincidence—damn it, boy, wasn’t there some damned conscious raven croaking in you the other day, when—there, read what I’ve underlined.”
He turned his face away impatiently as I took his letter, and read what he had marked:—
“I could have faced the horror of that exposure once—could have braved it, even, as your wife, Charles—you will forgive me—I know your loving generosity so well. But as the mother of your child I cannot face it. ... My falsehood lies like a blight upon his little gentle life; his sweet truth finds a stranger in his mother. Perhaps, when I am gone, by God’s mercy, he will recover, and live to forget me. When just now we were alone together, and I whispered to him that I was going, I am sure he stirred and gave a little sigh as if he were already conscious of something lifted—some load passing from him. Oh, Charles, how cruel, though I have deserved it! I think if you knew—all my tears and penitence in the life I am about to seek—that sin against the Lamb! ... do not distress yourself about me. I shall be secure in the fold. Someday, after my final abjuration of the world, I will let you know ... make what terms you can and will with my betrayer, for your own sake, for the sake of our darling, dear, not for mine. ... This cannot continue—its way is madness. There is no possible foreseeing a limit to his exactions, or to my robbing you. Now, knowing me fled, he will be anxious, perhaps, to come to terms. ... Richard will tell you—my shame is his, but not the right to avenge it. Keep him, with all the force of your persuasion, from that horrible thought. ... Oh, Charles, forgive me!”
His eyes had sought me again restlessly, as I read; and now, seeing me come to an end, he rose quickly and tremulously, and set to pacing up and down.
“What the devil does it all mean, Gaskett? We must stop her—get her back somehow before it’s too late and the scandal’s out. Have you any idea where she can have gone?”
“Give me time to think, sir. It is all very sad.”