DEAREST ARTHUR,—You remember my telling you about Mulberry Cottage? Well, the most wonderful thing has happened. That old darling, Miss Dashwood, the sister of Mrs. Gainsborough’s captain, has left it to me with everything in it. It has of course for me all sorts of memories, and I want to tell you very seriously that I regard it as a sign, yes, really a sign of my wanderings and restlessness being forever finished. It seems to me somehow to consecrate our marriage. Don’t think I’m turning religious: I shall never do that. Oh no, never! But I can’t help being moved by what to you may seem only a coincidence. Arthur, you must forgive me for the way in which I’ve often treated you. You mustn’t think that because I’ve always bullied you in the past I’m always going to in the future. If you want me now, I’m yours really, much more than I ever was in America, much, much more. You shall be happy with me. Oh, it’s such a dear house with a big garden, for London a very big garden, and it held once two such true hearts. Do you see the foolish tears smudging the ink? They’re my tears for so much. I’m going to-morrow morning to dust our house. Think of me when you get this letter as really at last
Your SYLVIA.
The next morning arrived a letter from Leeds, which had crossed hers:
MY DEAR SYLVIA,—I don’t know how to tell you what I must tell. I was married this morning to Maimie Vernon. I don’t know how I let myself fall in love with her. I never looked at her when she sang at the Pierian with you. But she got an engagement in this company and—well, you know the way things happen on tour. The only thing that makes me feel not an absolutely hopeless cad is that I’ve a feeling somehow that you were going to marry me more out of kindness and pity than out of love.
Forgive me. ARTHUR.
“That funny little red-haired girl!” Sylvia gasped. Then like a surging wave the affront to her pride overwhelmed her. With an effort she looked at her other letters. One was from Michael Fane’s sister:
HARDINGHAM HALL,
HUNTS,
May, 1914.
DEAR MISS SCARLETT,—My brother is back in England and so anxious to meet you again. I know you’re playing near town at present. Couldn’t you possibly come down next Sunday morning and stay till Monday? It would give us the greatest pleasure.
Yours sincerely,
STELLA PRESCOTT-MERIVALE.
“Never,” Sylvia cried, tearing the letter into small pieces. “Ah no! That, never, never!”