“Well, in the life they lead out there. It appears that there was some unfortunate attachment. I think she was married or something like that.”
“Who told you this?” asked Dora, in a voice like a threat.
“A man told Arthur at Cambridge—one of poor Jem's fellow-officers. The man who brought home the diary and things.”
Having once begun Mrs. Agar found herself obliged to go on. She had not time to pause and reflect that she was now staking everything upon the possibility of Jem's death subsequent to the disaster in which he was supposed to have perished.
Dora did not believe one word of this story, although she was quite without proof to the contrary. Jem's letters had not been frequent, nor had they been remarkable for minuteness of detail respecting his own life. Mrs. Agar had done her best to put a stop to this correspondence altogether, and had succeeded in bringing about a subtle reserve on both sides. She had persistently told Jem that Dora was evidently attached to Arthur, and that their marriage was only the question of a few years. Of this Jem had never found any confirmatory hint in Dora's letters, and from some mistaken sense of chivalry refrained from writing to ask her point-blank if it were true.
“And why,” said Dora, “do you tell me this? In case what the gossips said might be true?”
“Ye-es, dear, perhaps it was that.”
“So as to save me from cherishing any mistaken memory?”
“Yes, it may have been that.”
And Mrs. Agar was surprised to see Dora turn her back upon her as if she had been something loathsome to look upon, and walk away.