I wonder whether among the many cruel things she must be thinking about, she ever thinks, as I do often, what has become of Francis?
Sometimes, puzzling over how best to deal with her, I have tried to imagine myself in her place, and consider what would have been my own feelings towards Francis now. The sharpest and most prominent would be the ever-abiding sense of his degradation,—he who was so dear, united to the constant terror of his sinking lower and lower to any depth of crime or shame. To think of him as a bad man, a sinner against heaven, would be tenfold worse than any sin or cruelty against me.
Therefore, whether or not her love for him has died out, I cannot help thinking there must be times when Penelope would give anything for tidings of Francis Charteris. I wish you would find out whether he has left England, and then perhaps in some way or other I may let Penelope understand that he is safe away—possibly to begin a new and better life, in a new world.
A new and better life. This phrase—Penelope might call it our “cant,” yet what we solemnly believe in is surely not cant—brings me to something I have to tell you this week. For some reasons I am glad it did not occur until this week, that I might have time for consideration.
Max, if you remember, when you made to me that request about Lydia Cartwright, I merely answered “that I would endeavour to do as you wished;” as, indeed, I always would, feeling that my duty to you, even in the matter of “obedience,” has already begun. I mean to obey, you see, but would rather do it with my heart, as well as my conscience. So, hardly knowing what to say to you, I just said this, and no more.
My life has been so still, so safely shut up from the outside world, that there are many subjects I have never even thought about, and this was one. After the first great shock concerning Francis, I put it aside, hoping to forget it. When you revived it, I was at first startled; then I tried to ponder it over carefully, so as to come to a right judgment and be enabled to act in every way as became not only myself, Theodora Johnston, but—let me not be ashamed to say it—Theodora, Max Urquhart's wife.
By-and-by, all became clear to me. My dear Max, I do not hesitate; I am not afraid. I have been only waiting opportunity; which at length came.
Last Sunday I overheard my class—Penelope's that was, you know—whispering something among themselves, and trying to hide it from me; when I put the question direct, the answer was:—
“Please, Miss, Mrs. Cartwright and Lydia have come home.”
I felt myself grow hot as fire—I do now, in telling you. Only it must be borne—it must be told.