“I have fulfilled my promise in delivering the letter to you,” the minister responded. “But if you ask my advice, I should certainly recommend you to read it. The writer was a good woman, a saintly woman; and whatever the message she has sent you from beyond the grave, as it were, I think it would be well for you to read it.”
The young wife took the envelope. “Very well,” she answered, “since I must read it, I will.”
“I am conscious that this interview cannot but have been somewhat painful to you, Mrs. Blackstock,” said the minister, moving toward the door. “Certainly the situation is strangely unconventional. But I trust you will forgive me for my share in the matter—”
“Forgive you?” she rejoined, finding phrases with difficulty. “Oh yes—yes, I forgive you, of course.”
“Then I will bid you good afternoon,” he returned.
“Good afternoon,” she answered, automatically.
“I beg that you will give my regards to your husband.”
“To my husband?” she repeated. “Of course, of course.”
When Dr. Thurston had gone at last, the bride stood still in the center of the drawing-room with the envelope gripped in her hand. Taking a long breath, she tore it open with a single motion and took out the half-dozen sheets that were folded within it. She turned it about and shook it suspiciously, but nothing fell from it. This relieved her dread a little, for she feared that there might be some inclosure—something that she would be sorry to have seen.
With the letter in her hand at last, she hesitated no longer; she unfolded it and began to read.