“She’s getting on well,” he said—“a good deal better than I expected, indeed. Well, I have looked up Sir Henry Graves, for he’s a baronet. As it chanced, I came across a man at the hospital last night who used to stay with his father down at Rosham. The old man, Sir Reginald, died a few months ago; and Henry, the second son—for his elder brother broke his neck in a steeplechase—succeeded him. He is, or was, a captain in the Navy, rather a distinguished man in a small way; and not long ago he met with an accident, broke his leg or something of that sort, and was laid up at an inn in a place called Bradmouth. It seems that he is a good sort of fellow, though rather taciturn. That’s all I could find out about him.”
“Joan comes from Bradmouth, and she lived in an inn there,” answered Mrs. Bird.
“Oh! did she? Well, then there you have the whole thing; nothing could be more natural and proper, or rather improper.”
“Perhaps so, sir,” said Mrs. Bird reprovingly; “though, begging your pardon, I cannot see that this is a matter to joke about. What I want to know now is shall I send the gentleman that letter?”
The doctor rubbed his nose reflectively and answered, “If you do he will probably put it at the back of the fire; but so far as I can judge, being of course totally unacquainted with the details, it can’t hurt anybody much, and it may have a good effect. She has forgotten that she ever wrote it, and you may be sure that unless he acts on it he won’t show it about the neighbourhood. Yes, on the whole I think that you may as well send it, though I dare say that it will put him in a tight place.”
“That is where I should like to see him,” she answered, pursing up her lips.
“I dare say. You’re down on the man, are you not, Mrs. Bird? And so am I, speaking in a blessed ignorance of the facts. By all means let him be put into a tight place, or ruined, for anything I care. He may be comparatively innocent, but my sympathies are with the lady, whom I chance to know, and who is very good looking. Mind you let me know what happens that is, if anything does happen.”
That afternoon Mrs. Bird wrote her letter, or rather she wrote several letters, for never before did the composition of an epistle give her so much thought and trouble. In the end it ran as follows:—
“SIR,—
“I am venturing to take what I dare say you will think a great liberty, and a liberty it is, indeed, that only duty drives me to. For several months a girl called Joan Haste has been staying in my house as a lodger. Some weeks ago she was taken seriously ill with a brain fever, from which she has nearly died; but it pleased God to spare her life, and now, though she is weak as water, the doctor thinks that she will recover. On the night that she became ill she returned home not at all herself, and made a confession to me, about which I need say nothing. Afterwards she wrote what I enclose to you. You will see from the wording of it that she was off her head when she did it, and now I am sure that she remembers nothing of it. I found the letter and kept it; and partly from what fell from her lips while she was delirious, partly because of other circumstances, I became sure that you are the man to whom that letter is addressed. If I have made any mistake you must forgive me, and I beg that you will then return the enclosed and destroy my letter. If, sir, I have not made a mistake, then I hope that you will see fit to act like an honest man towards poor Joan, who, whatever her faults may be—and such as they are you are the cause of them—is as good-hearted as she is sweet and beautiful. It is not for me to judge you or reproach you; but if you can, I do pray you to act right by this poor girl, who otherwise must be ruined, and may perhaps drift into a life of sin and misery, the responsibility for which will be upon your hands.