“I don’t know. But I can get you her address.”
“Pray do. I shall go and see her. We are quite friendly enough for me to do so without impertinence.”
Having lunched with her acquaintance, Rhoda went in the afternoon to Mildred Vesper’s lodgings. Miss Vesper was at home, reading, in her usual placid mood. She gave Rhoda the address that was on Mrs. Widdowson’s last brief note, and that evening Rhoda sent it to Mrs. Cosgrove by letter.
In two days she received a reply. Mrs. Cosgrove had called upon Mrs. Widdowson at her lodgings at Clapham. “She is ill, wretched, and unwilling to talk. I could only stay about a quarter of an hour, and to ask questions was impossible. She mentioned your name, and appeared very anxious to hear about you; but when I asked whether she would like you to call she grew timid all at once, and said she hoped you wouldn’t unless you really desired to see her. Poor thing! Of course I don’t know what it all means, but I came away with maledictions on marriage in my heart—one is always safe in indulging that feeling.”
A week or so after this there arrived for Miss Barfoot a letter from Everard. The postmark was Ostend.
Never before had Rhoda been tempted to commit a break of confidence such as in any one else she would have scorned beyond measure. She had heard, of course, of people secretly opening letters with the help of steam; whether it could be done with absolute security from detection she did not feel sure, but her thoughts dwelt on the subject for several hours. It was terrible to hold this letter of Everard’s writing, and yet be obliged to send it away without knowledge of the contents, which perhaps gravely concerned her. She could not ask Miss Barfoot to let her know what Everard had written. The information might perhaps be voluntarily granted; but perhaps not.
To steam the back of the envelope—would it not leave marks, a rumpling or discoloration? Even to be suspected of such dishonour would be more bitter to her than death. Could she even think of it? How she was degraded by this hateful passion, which wrought in her like a disease!
With two others which that day had arrived she put the letter into a large envelope, and so dispatched it. But no satisfaction rewarded her; her heart raged against the world, against every law of life.
When, in a few days, a letter came to her from Miss Barfoot, she tore it open, and there—yes, there was Everard’s handwriting. Mary had sent the communication for her to read.
“DEAR COUSIN MARY,—After all I was rather too grumpy in my last note to you. But my patience had been desperately tried. I have gone through a good deal; now at last I am recovering sanity, and can admit that you had no choice but to ask those questions. I know and care nothing about Mrs. Widdowson. By her eccentric behaviour she either did me a great injury or a great service, I’m not quite sure which, but I incline to the latter view. Here is a conundrum—not very difficult to solve, I dare say.