Laline was growing accustomed by this time to Mrs. Vandeleur's singular methods of expression. A strong liking had grown up between them, although the elder woman was hardly sufficiently human in her ways of thought to constitute a true friend. But Laline dared not confide in her, for many reasons, so she let her statements pass without comment. So far from cherishing any sentiment of repulsion against Wallace Armstrong, she could hardly keep her thoughts from dwelling on the subject of his tender speeches and tenderer eyes; and it was only by constantly reminding herself of the mean and cowardly trick by which he had become her husband that she was enabled to preserve any lingering resentment against him.
On the Tuesday evening before Mrs. Vandeleur's promised visit to Mr. Wallace's house Laline received the first approach to a love letter she had ever had despatched to her. Dinner was over, and she was engaged in writing in the study at Mrs. Vandeleur's dictation, when the postman's knock preluded the tap at the door of Susan and her entrance with a salver, upon which were two letters, one for the mistress of the house, and the other for Miss Lina Grahame.
"A letter for you, my child," said the elder lady, peering at the address through her eye-glass—"the first you have received since your arrival."
Long before Laline had opened it or even glanced at the handwriting on the envelope, she knew that Wallace Armstrong was her correspondent, and felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair under Mrs. Vandeleur's critical scrutiny.
"Do you know the writing?" the latter asked; and Laline replied with perfect truth that she had never seen it before.
"My dear Miss Grahame," the letter began—"I am writing to entreat you to come with Mrs. Vandeleur to-morrow. Even if you don't like me you would most certainly like my uncle, who is one of the noblest and best of men, generous and forgiving to a fault, and one who, in spite of his wealth, has suffered many deep and bitter trials in what to him has been far more important than money, his domestic affection. He is very old and very lonely, though with his chivalrous kindness towards all women he is the very man who should by rights be surrounded by a happy family circle. I owe everything to him, and can hardly with a lifelong devotion repay his more than fatherly goodness. I am sure that you are gentle and pitiful as you are beautiful—'fair, kind, and true,' as Shakspere puts it. And, being all these things, won't you come, Miss Grahame, and, by giving yourself just a little trouble, and putting up for an hour or more with the presence of some one you hate, confer a great pleasure upon one of the best old men alive? I solemnly promise not to 'flirt,' as you call it. If I may not talk to you, I will console myself by talking of you to Mrs. Vandeleur, which is the next best thing. In my dream last night you promised to come. Be as sweet as your dream-prototype is the prayer of yours always devotedly,
"Wallace L. Armstrong."
This letter moved and interested Laline deeply. Since it was now impossible for her to accompany Mrs. Vandeleur and her niece, she felt that she must send a few words in answer, lest she might be thought too unfeeling. She was also very anxious to prevent Wallace from carrying out his threat of talking about her to Mrs. Vandeleur. The latter had guessed already that she was a married woman; and might she not be capable of hinting as much to Mr. Armstrong under the mistaken impression that his attentions would be disagreeable to her secretary?
Lost in thought, Laline bent over the letter which lay on her lap, ignoring the steady, curious gaze of Mrs. Vandeleur's keen, dark eyes. The fact that it was absolutely the first letter she had ever received from her husband excited her strangely, and she found herself fingering the paper with a touch that was almost affectionate. It seemed a little in the light of a confession that Wallace should expatiate so much upon his uncle's generous and forgiving nature and fatherly goodness, and on his lonely life and domestic troubles.
"I believe—I want to believe that Wallace has utterly changed," she said to herself, with flushed cheeks and moist eyes. "If he were anything like the man he was four years and a half ago, when he entered into that horrible bargain with my father, he could never have written this letter. His uncle's goodness must have changed him by gradually softening his heart. And then—my father was so much older that he may have led him into things, and Wallace was penniless—perhaps I have been too hard in my judgment on him all these years, although I am afraid if it were all to happen again I should act in just the same way."