“I am very sorry, father,” she answered coldly for, trusting as she was by nature, she did not believe him, “I will be more careful in future.”
Then she left the room, feeling that another enigma had been added to the growing stock of family mysteries.
Slowly the days went by, till at length it became clear to those who tended her that Joan would recover from her illness.
The last and greatest crisis had come and gone, the fever had left her, and she no longer wandered in her mind, but lay upon the bed a shadow of her former self, so weak that she could scarcely speak above a whisper. All day long she lay thus, staring at the dingy ceiling above her with her brown eyes, which, always large, now looked positively unnatural in her wasted face a very pathetic sight to see. At times the eyes would fill with tears, and at times she would sigh a little, but she never smiled, except in acknowledgment of some service of the sick room. Once she asked Mrs. Bird if any one had discovered that she was ill, or come to see her, and on receiving a reply in the affirmative, asked eagerly,—
“Who? What was his name?”
“Mr. Levinger,” the little woman answered.
“It is very kind of him,” Joan murmured, and turned her head upon the pillow, where presently Mrs. Bird saw such a mark as might have been left by the falling of a heavy raindrop.
Then it was that Mrs. Bird’s doubts and difficulties began afresh. From what she had heard while attending on Joan in her delirium, she was now convinced that the poor girl’s story was true, and that the letter which she had written was addressed not to any imaginary person, but to a living man who had worked her bitter wrong. This view indeed was confirmed by the doctor, who added, curiously enough, that had it not been for her condition he did not believe that she would have lived. In these circumstances the question that tormented Mrs. Bird was whether or no she would do right to post that letter. At one time she thought of laying the matter before Mr. Levinger, but upon consideration she refrained from so doing. He was the girl’s guardian, and doubtless he knew nothing of her disgrace. Why, then, should she expose it, unless such a step became absolutely necessary? Ultimately he would have to be told, but there seemed no need to tell him until an appeal to the man’s honour and pity had failed. After much thought Mrs. Bird adopted a third course, and took the doctor into her confidence. He was a man of rough manners, plain speech, and good heart, and her story did not in the least surprise him.
“There’s nothing wonderful about this, Mrs. Bird,” he said. “I have seen the same thing with variations dozens of times in my twenty years of experience. It’s no use your starting off to call this man a scoundrel and a brute. It’s fashionable, I know, but it does not follow that it is accurate: you see it is just possible that the girl may have been to blame herself, poor dear. However, she is in a mess, and the thing is to get her out of it, at the expense of the man if necessary, for we are interested in her and not in him. That letter of hers is a beautiful production in a queer kind of way, and ought to have an effect on the individual, if he is not already married, or a bad lot both of which things are probable. I tell you what, I will make a few inquiries about him, and let you know my opinion to-morrow. What did you say his name was? Henry Graves? Thanks; good-bye. No, no opiate to-night, I think.”
On the following day the doctor returned, and having visited Joan and reported favourably of her progress, he descended to the front parlour, where Mrs. Bird was waiting for him.