It Never Rains but it Pours.
The first paper Mrs Brandon drew from the envelope was one in a bold lady’s-hand, evidently written hastily, and contained but the following words:
“Dear Max,—I will take him into the waiting-room, where there is a good view of the platform. I can keep him there, I think. But you must be quick. Recollect, a momentary glance will do. Run by, if you can, at the very last minute. But pray, pray be careful. It is victory or ruin; for he would never forgive either. Laura.
“P.S. Burn this, and every note I send.”
Mrs Brandon’s face wore a troubled puzzled expression as she glanced at Ella, whose lips moved.
“I found that in my reticule since I have lain here,” she whispered. “Read on, and you will understand.”
Mrs Brandon took out from the envelope another paper, and read, in a round legal hand:
“Cliff-terrace, Penzance,—18—
“Sir,—I am requested by my patient, Mr Charles Vining, to enclose the note here contained, one which, at his wish, I have addressed as you see. He tells me that he is doubtful of its reaching the lady if sent by post, and desires me to implore you to be its bearer, delivering it yourself, and adding your persuasions if she should decline compliance. He would have written more, but the note enclosed was penned in my brief absence, and I sternly forbade farther exertion. By way of explanation, I may tell you that my patient came in here, with two more gentlemen, in a yacht, driven to the bay by stress of weather. The next night there was a fearful wreck close in shore, and Mr Vining and one of his friends volunteered, and were out in the lifeboat. I regret to say that their gallant attempt only added to the long list of those gone to their account. Two of the lifeboat’s crew were drowned, while your friend was cast upon the rocks fearfully injured.
“Let me assure you that he has had the best advice the town affords.—I am, sir, your obedient servant,
“Henry Penellyn, M.R.C.S.
“To Maximilian Bray, Esq.
“P.S. Mr Vining bids me tell you that the above is his last request.
“I do not read to him the following: Not a moment is to be lost, for internal haemorrhage has set in.”
Mrs Brandon’s breath came thick and fast, as dashing down this letter, she took up the next.
“My only love,—Pray come to me. I am half-killed.—Ever yours,
“Charles Vining.”
“But that is—stop a minute,” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, who was terribly agitated, and she rang the bell. “Bring my desk quickly,” she said to the maid who answered. “Yes,” she exclaimed, as she unlocked the desk and drew out a letter, and compared it carefully. “It is the same hand. It is his writing!”