What was that lying on the table? An envelope, a dirty one which had been in the drawer for a long time; on it was written 'Lyddy.' It was Thyrza's writing. Lydia opened it. Inside was a rough piece of white paper, torn off a sheet in which something had been wrapped. It was written upon, and the writing said this:
'I have gone away. I can't marry Gilbert, and I can't tell him the truth. Remember your promise. Some day I shall come back to you, when everything is different. Remember your promise, so that Gilbert can go to the library just the same. No harm will come to me. Good-bye, my dear, dear sister. If you love me you will say you know nothing, so that it will be all right for Gilbert. Good-bye, Lyddy, darling.'
Crushing the paper in her hand, Lydia, just as she was, ran out into the street. It was not yet dark. Instinctively, after one glance towards Kennington Road, she took the opposite way and made for Newport Street. Thyrza would communicate with Totty Nancarrow, if with any one at all; she would not go there at once, but Totty must be won over to aid in discovering the child and bringing her back.
It rained, not heavily, but enough to dew Lydia's hair in a few minutes. Little she thought of that. Thyrza wandering alone—straying off into some far part of London; Thyrza, ill as she was—with at most a few pence to procure lodging for this one night—alone among what dangers! The thought was fire in her brain.
She was in Paradise Street, and someone stood in her way, speaking.
'Lydia! Where ever are you going like that?'
It was Mary Bower. Lydia glared at her.
'How dare you speak to me! I hate you!'
And with a wild gesture, almost a blow at the girl, she rushed on.
Totty had just come in from work. Lydia scarcely waited for a reply to her knock before she burst into the room.