Harcourt sat down on the first seat that offered, glanced at the dates on the postmarks, and selected the latest, as having the last news, and that was three weeks old. It had been written, at the instance of old Martha, by the hand of May Wynthrop, imploring Mr. Harcourt to come and see his mother, who was in good bodily health, but who was pining to see him.
“She was in good health three weeks ago, thank heaven! And yet she must have suffered several weeks of suspense and anxiety previous to that. I must lose no more time, but take this night’s train for Logwood,” Harcourt thought to himself.
He opened and read the other letters, but they were all to the same purport.
When he had finished them all he put a strong constraint upon himself, and inquired:
“Can you tell me anything about the young married couple who came down here last November to spend their honeymoon on the Isle of Storms?”
For all answer, “mine host” lifted up his head, pursed up his lips, and gave a long whistle.
“What does that mean?” inquired Harcourt.
The landlord grew very grave.
“See here, young gentleman,” he said solemnly, “I don’t know the rights of it, but this is certain—bride and groom quarreled and parted before they became husband and wife.”
“What!” demanded Harcourt, starting to his feet.