"Good evening, Metcalfe," I said, when the door was opened by that worthy. "Are the ladies in?—Miss Carleton, or Miss Kate?"
"No, sir," he said, looking at me queerly. "They have left town, but there's a letter—two letters—for you, sir. If you'll come in I'll get them."
"Left town?" I said, blankly. Then, recovering myself—for I did not desire to enliven the ennui of Metcalfe and his fellow-servants by providing them with matter for speculation and discussion concerning the relations which existed between their young mistress and myself—I added, unconcernedly:
"Oh, yes—of course. I had forgotten it was to be so soon, and I have been out of town myself. Where are the letters, Metcalfe?"
"On the library table, sir. Perhaps you'll walk in. Can I get you some coffee, sir?"
"No, thank you. I'm just up from the country, and haven't dined. But I'll go into the library to read my letters. If any answer should happen to be wanted, I could write it there, and so catch an early post. I shan't want you any more, Metcalfe. Don't wait."
The man withdrew, and I opened the first of my letters.
It was from Kate.
Good-bye, dear Max; good-bye for ever. Something horrible has happened, and you and I must never see each other again. So we have gone—my aunt and I. It was the only way. If you love me, do not try to find us. It will be quite useless. If you love me, keep your promise—the promise, I mean, that you refused to me. You will not refuse it to me now, I know—the first and last promise I shall ever ask from you. One thing more, only, I will ask you—not to promise, but to believe; and that is that the answer I gave to your last question, as we stood together by the window, was true.—Kate.
I suppose it was because I had opened it, prepared for some shock, some calamity, that I read this letter with such calmness, such impassiveness. Instead of springing up to stride the room, like one beside himself, instead of gasping "Gone!—and for ever! My God! What can it mean?" I rose quietly from my chair, and, thrusting the letter into my pocket, walked over leisurely to stir the fire. That there was an obstacle of some sort between Kate and me, I had realised the last time she and I had stood in this same room together, and she had confessed her love. But bogeys—most of all the bogeys of a woman's making and imagining, paralyse and appal her as they may—do not greatly alarm the average man. That which she pronounces to be an insurmountable obstacle, he first surveys on all sides to satisfy himself that it is an obstacle at all, and then calmly goes to work to discover how that obstacle can best be overcome. Kate loved me; I loved her. Given these facts, I saw no reason to despair.