“Sartin, mist’ess, an’ fetched dis letter—on’y one letter, an’ no papers nor pamfits. W’ere did I put dat letter ag’in?” inquired the man, in perplexity, as he searched pocket after pocket in vain, while Roma stood waiting—consuming with anxiety.
“Oh, yere it is, arter all, in de linin’ ob my hat!” exclaimed Pompous, finding the letter and handing it to his mistress.
She knew the handwriting. It was Will Harcourt’s. It was the first communication he had made to her since that night of their wedding day, when he had left her on the threshold of their home at Guyon Manor House to attend Hanson to the boat, as she thought, but after which he was mysteriously lost to her and to all her friends, until he had suddenly appeared at Lone Lodge. And even this communication had only been made on her own demand.
What would it be? Was he coming to her, and when? What would he say? Would she get to the root of the mystery which had separated them, and thrown her, bound and captive, into the hands of Hanson?
These thoughts rushed tumultuously through her mind as she seized the letter, hurried upstairs to her own room, locked the door, threw herself into a chair, tore open the envelope, and read:
“Lady: I cannot come. I cannot explain. I am accursed from your presence forever, into the outer darkness of absence and silence.
W. H.”
Roma gazed at these lines in a trance of amazement.
What could they mean? What was the mystery?
Still she could think no evil of him. It seemed impossible for her to do so.