As I lay thinking of all the strange and horrible events which had filled my life lately, the thought of Mr. Rayner lying concealed in his own house, perhaps hidden in some cellar the existence of which was unknown to every one else, came uppermost in my mind. It was the most dreadful blow I had ever experienced to have my respect and affection for a kind friend turned suddenly into horror of a great criminal. But I would not believe that he was all bad. How could a man who was so kind and sweet-tempered have no redeeming points at all? And it was I, who had never received anything but kindness at his hands, who—innocently indeed—had drawn down this pursuit upon him. There were only two things that I could do now. I could pray for him, as I did most earnestly, that he might repent of what he had done, and become in very truth all that he had seemed to me; and I could perhaps let him know how the thought that it was I who had brought down justice upon him tormented me.
A possible means of communicating with him occurred to me. In spite of the Doctor’s prohibition, I sprang out of bed, got my desk, and wrote a note asking his forgiveness, and giving him a full explanation of the way in which, in all innocence, I had written the letter which had led to this pursuit of him. I told him the house was being watched, and was to be searched before long, and begged that, when he had got away, he would find some means of letting me know he was in safety. “I do pray for you every night and morning. I can’t forget all your kindness to me, whatever you have done, and I don’t wish to do so,” I added, as a last thought in a P.S. And then I put on my dressing-gown, and, when I heard nobody about, slipped down by the back staircase to his study, where I put the note, directed simply to “G. Rayner, Esq.,” just inside the drawer of his writing-table, and crept guiltily upstairs again.
Mrs. Manners came to see me that afternoon; Laurence had confided nearly everything to her, and she was much more severe upon Mr. Rayner than I—quite unchristian, I thought, and rather angry with me for not being as bitter as herself against him.
“Don’t you know he wanted Sarah to kill his own wife that he might marry you, child, and, when Sarah was taken ill and couldn’t do it, he wanted to run away with you?”
“Yes; but, as he was prevented from doing either of those things, it is easier to forgive him. Don’t you think I ought to try to forgive him, Mrs. Manners?”
“I don’t know, I am sure, child,” said she, after a little hesitation. “But I think it ought to require an effort.”
Then she told me that, when Laurence had heard that morning through Jane of the night’s adventure, he had gone to Dr. Lowe and insisted upon Sarah’s removal to the county lunatic asylum that very day; and I never saw the poor creature again.
When Mrs. Manners had left me, and Jane had come up at four o’clock with a cup of tea, I insisted on getting up and being dressed, as I wanted to see Mrs. Rayner, and find out whether she had heard of Sarah’s departure. I heard that she had gone to her old room in the left wing, and, having taken the precaution to wrap a shawl round me before entering that long cold passage, I passed through the heavy swing-door, the very sight of which I hated.
I was opposite to the store-room door, when it was softly opened, and, without being able to make any resistance, I was drawn inside by a man’s arm. I looked up, expecting to see Mr. Rayner, and was horror-stricken to find myself in the arms of Gordon, the man who had shot me. It was so dark already in the store-room, lighted only by one little high window, that, his back being turned towards it, I could not see his face.
“Don’t tremble so,” said he—his voice was always hard, but he did not mean to speak unkindly. “I meant to do for you before I left this house; but this has saved you.” And he showed me my letter to Mr. Rayner.