"I believe there is a letter on the writing-table," she said to the maid as she was about to go out. "Take it with you and put it in the box downstairs!"
The girl returned and took up the letter that Field had written that evening. "It isn't stamped my lady," she began; and then in a tone of surprise: "Why, it is addressed to your ladyship!"
Violet started. "Give it to me!" she commanded "That will do. I shall not be wanting you again to-night."
The girl withdrew, and she crouched lower over the fire, the letter in her hand.
Yes, it was addressed to her in her husband's clear, strong writing—addressed to her and written in her presence!
Her hands were trembling very much as she tore open the envelope. A baffling mist danced before her eyes. For a few seconds she could see nothing. Then with a great effort she commanded herself, and read:
"My own Beloved Wife,
"If I have made your life a misery, may I be forgiven! I meant otherwise. I saw you on the ramparts this evening. That is why I want you to leave this place to-morrow. But if you do not wish to share my life any longer, I will let you go. Only in Heaven's name choose some worthier means than this!
"I am yours to take or leave. P.F."
Hers—to take—or leave! She felt again the steady hold upon her arm, the equally steady release. That was what he had meant. That!