Eve’s awakening came in a most unexpected shape. It came one October morning in the first week of her residence at Merewood. It came in a letter from her old servant, a letter in a shabby envelope, lying hidden among that heap of letters, monogrammed, coroneted, fashionable, which lay beside Mrs. Vansittart’s plate when she took her seat at the breakfast table.
She left that letter for the last, not recognizing Nancy’s penmanship, an article of which the faithful servant had always been sparing. Eve read all those other trivial letters—invitations, acceptances, friendly little communications of no meaning—and commented upon them to her husband as he took his breakfast—and finally opened Nancy’s letter. It was October, and Vansittart was dressed for shooting. October, yet there was no house-party. Eve had pleaded for a little more of that dual solitude which husband and wife had found so delightful; and Vansittart had been nothing loth to indulge her whim. November would be time enough to invite his friends; and in the mean time they had their pine woods and copses and common all to themselves; and Eve could tramp about the covers with him when he went after his pheasants, without feeling herself in anybody’s way. October had begun charmingly, with weather that was balmy and bright enough for August. They were breakfasting with windows open to the lawn and flower-beds, and the bees were buzzing among the dahlias, and the air was scented with the Dijon roses that covered the wall.
“Why, it is from Nancy,” exclaimed Eve, looking at the signature. “Dear old Nancy. What can she have to write about?”
“Read, Eve, read,” cried Vansittart. “I believe Nancy’s letter will be more interesting than all those inanities you have been reading to me. There is sure to be some touch of originality, even if it is only in the spelling.”
Eve’s eyes had been hurrying over the letter while he spoke.
“Oh, Jack,” she exclaimed, in a piteous voice, “can there be any truth in this?”
The letter was as follows, in an orthography which need not be reproduced:—
“Honoured Madam,
“I should not take the liberty to write to you about dear Miss Peggy, only at Miss Sophy’s and Miss Jenny’s age they can’t be expected to know anything about illness, and I’m afraid they may pass things over till it’s too late to mend matters, and then I know you would blame your old servant for not having spoken out.”
“What an alarming preamble!” said Jack. “What does it all mean?”