What he wrote ran thus:—
“My dear Mrs. Ripley: I only want to send you this line or two, to tell you that your friends are hard at work in your behalf, and that before this time to-morrow we mean to have you safe and sound at home. Meanwhile, for Arthur s sake, try to bear up and be of good cheer. The poor boy is breaking his heart about you. All I can do for him is to promise that in a few hours, now, he shall hold you in his arms again. I should like to make clear to you in this note how it was that he seemed to have had a share in the trickery by which you were betrayed; but I am afraid I might make a bungle of it; and after all, it is best that you should hear the tale from his own lips, as you surely will to-morrow morning. I beg and pray that you will strive hard not to let this thing have any grave effect upon your health. That is what I most dread. Of other consequences I have no fear—and you need have none. If you will only exert your strength to bear it a little while longer, and come home to us to-morrow sound and well in health, why, we shall all live to forget that this break in our happiness ever occurred. I think I feel the full pain of your position. I know that it is of a sort to unnerve the staunchest of us. But I know too that you have uncommon powers at your command; and I beg of you, for your own sake, for Arthur’s, for Mrs. Hart’s, to call upon them now. Weather the storm for one more night, and then I vouch for the coming blue skies.
“God bless you and be with you!
“Julian Hetzel.”
“I want to add a postscript,” said Arthur, when Hetzel laid down his pen.
“Do you think you’d better?” asked Hetzel, dubiously.
“Let me have it, will you?” cried Arthur, savagely; and held out his hand for the paper.
Hetzel gave it to him. On the blank space that was left he wrote: “Ruth—my darling—for God’s sake, overcome your anger against me. Don’t judge me before you have heard my defense. Be merciful, Ruth, and wait till you have let me speak and justify myself, before taking for granted that I have been guilty of treachery toward you. Oh, Ruth, how can you condemn me on mere appearances?—me, your husband. Oh, please, Ruth, please write me an answer, saying that you have got over the anger you felt for me yesterday and this morning, and that you will suspend judgment of me till I have had a chance to clear myself. I can not write my explanation here, now. I am not calm enough, and it is too long a story. Oh, Ruth, I shall go mad, unless you will promise to wait about condemning me. Write me an answer at once, and send it by the messenger who brings you this. I can not say any thing else except that I love you. Oh, you will kill me, if you go on believing what you told Mrs. Hart—that I do not love you. You must believe that I love you—you know I love you. Say in your answer that you know I love you. I love you as I never loved you—more than I ever loved you before. Oh, little Ruth, please cheer up, and don’t be unhappy. If this thing should result seriously for your health, I—I shall die. Dear little Ruth, just try to keep up until to-morrow morning. If you will only come home all right to-morrow morning, then our sufferings will not count. Ruth!”
Hetzel said, “I’ll run out to the corner, and find some one to carry this to her.”
He went off. Mrs. Hart and Arthur sat silent and motionless in the parlor. In due time Hetzel got back. He too took a seat and kept his peace. So the afternoon wore away. No one spoke. Their minds were busy enough, God knows; but busy with thoughts which they dared not shape in speech. The clock on the mantel-piece ticked with painful distinctness. Street-sounds penetrated the closed windows—children’s voices, at their games—the cries of fruit venders—hand-organ music—the noise of wheels on paving stones—and reminded the listeners that the life of the city was going on very much as usual. Now and then a steam-whistle shrieked on the river. Now and then one of our tongue-tied trio drew a deep, audible sigh. Ruth’s piano, in the corner, was open. On the rack lay a sheet of music, and with it a tiny white silk handkerchief that she had doubtless thrown down carelessly, and left there, the day before. When Arthur perceived this, he got up, crossed the floor, took possession of it, and tucked it into his pocket.