He could not tell her: “Open that envelope in your hand”, for that would have meant that it was he who had sent the £50 it contained; and he had now only one sixpence in Priddlestone.
“That is”, she said—“if it is not an inconvenience to you—”
He could find no words. Some fifteen minutes before, having enclosed the notes, he had descended to the bar to get mine host to find him a messenger, and direct the envelope—for Hogarth knew his handwriting. Mine host was not there—his wife could not write: but she had pointed out the Jewish park-keeper sipping beer; so Loveday had had the man upstairs, had made him write the address, and had bribed him to deliver the envelope with a mum tongue.
“I'm afraid I've taken a great liberty—” she said, shrinking at his silence.
Then he spoke: “Oh, liberty!—but—really—I'm quite broke myself—!”
“Then, good-afternoon to you”, said she: “I am very sorry—but you will excuse the liberty, won't you—?”
In the forest she began to cry, covering her eyes, moaning: “Why, how could he be so mean? And I who loved that young man with all my heart, God knows—!”
Her eyes searched the ground for two sovereigns. Then she happened to look at the envelope: and instantly was interested. “Why, it is the Jew's hand!” she thought, for the letters were angular in the German manner, making a general similarity with Frankl's writing.
Curiosity overcame her: she opened, and saw...
“Oh, well, this is generous though, after all!” she exclaimed.