"Very well. Get away and wait in the outer room," said Sir Jekyl, flushing a little, and looking somehow annoyed.
"I hate the sight of her hand. It's sealed, too. I wish that cursed old woman was where she ought to be; and she chooses now because she knows I'm ill, and can't bear worry."
Sir Jekyl twirled the little note round in his fingers and thumb with a pinch. The feverish pain he was suffering did not improve his temper, and he was intemperately disposed to write across the back of the unopened note something to this effect:—"Ill and suffering; the pleasure of your note might be too much for me; pray keep it till to-morrow."
But curiosity and something of a dread that discovery had occurred prompted him to open it, and he read—
"Having had a most painful interview with unhappy General Lennox, and endured mental agitation and excitement which are too much for my miserable health and nerves, I mean to return to Wardlock as early to-day as my strength will permit, taking with me, at his earnest request, your victim."
"D—n her!" interposed Sir Jekyl through his set teeth.
"I think you will see," he read on, "that this house is no longer a befitting residence for your poor innocent girl. As I am charged for a time with the care of the ruined wife of your friend and guest, you will equally see that it is quite impossible to offer my darling Beatrix an asylum at Wardlock. The Fentons, however, will, I am sure, be happy to receive her. She must leave Marlowe, of course, before I do. While here, she is under my care; but this house is no home for her; and you can hardly wish that she should be sacrificed in the ruin of the poor wife whom you have made an outcast."
"Egad! it's the devil sent that fiend to torture me so. It's all about, I suppose," exclaimed Sir Jekyl, with a gasp. "Unlucky! The stupid old fribble, to think of his going off with his story to that Pharisaical old tattler!"
The remainder of the letter was brief.
"I do not say, Jekyl Marlowe, that I regret your illness. You have to thank a merciful Providence that it is unattended with danger; and it affords an opportunity for reflection, which may, if properly improved, lead to some awakening of conscience—to a proper estimate of your past life, and an amendment of the space that remains. I need hardly add, that an amended life involves reparation, so far as practicable, to all whom you or, in your interest, yours may have injured.
"In deep humiliation and sorrow,
"Alice Redcliffe."
"I wish you were in a deep pond, you plaguy old witch. That fellow, Herbert Strangways—Varbarriere—he's been talking to her. I know what she means by all that cant."