“Well, but,” said Edward, “do you mean to say that in the present day—”
“Mai—dearr—sirr. Mankind niver changes. Whativer the muscles of man can do in the light, the mind and conscience of man will consent to do in the dark.”
Julia said never a word.
Mrs. Dodd, too, was for action not for talk. She bade them all a hasty adieu, and went on her good work.
Ere she got to the street door, she heard a swift rustle behind her; and it was Julia flying down to her, all glowing and sparkling with her old impetuosity, that had seemed dead for ever. “No, no,” she cried, panting with generous emotion; “it is to me it was sent. I am torn from him I love, and by some treachery I dare say: and I have suffered—oh you shall never know what I have suffered. Give it me, oh pray, pray, pray give it me. I'll take it to Whitehall.”
CHAPTER XLIII
IF we could always know at the time what we are doing.
Two ladies carried a paper to Whitehall out of charity to a stranger.
Therein the elder was a benefactress to a man she had never spoken of but as “the Wretch;” the younger held her truant bridegroom's heart, I may say, in her hand all the road and was his protectress. Neither recognised the hand-writing; for no man can write his own hand with a toothpick.