She was used to that sentence, but somehow to-day the pain and shame that such a letter as she supposed she was going to read, an intimate love-letter, should have been seen by any other eyes than her own, brought a new anguish.
She unfolded the big, plain sheet of notepaper, and at once she saw that there was no beginning or end to the letter. The fact that this was so gave her a quick, frightened feeling of foreboding.
If, as Toogood is obviously convinced will be the case, I am committed for trial, then, Jean, I want you to do something for me.
You’ve never failed me, and I trust you to see this thing as I see it myself. I want you, my dear, to release me. By that I mean that it is my wish our engagement should be at an end. I know you believe I’m an innocent man; but I’ve gone through hell since I was arrested, knowing that all unwittingly I have brought not only grief, but unutterable shame, on you and on those kind, good friends of mine, Dr. and Mrs. Maclean. I am told that nothing done now can prevent your being called as a witness at my trial, but I’m convinced that if you appear as a simple witness, and not as a woman engaged to me, it will be infinitely better not only for you, but for me also. This is why I ask you most solemnly to allow our engagement to come to an end, and to let the fact be widely advertised. As Toogood has reminded me more than once, we were, after all, only engaged for a very short time. But may I say, Jean, in this, my last, letter to you, for I do not intend to write again, and I beg you will not do so, that not only during the last few weeks but ever since I came home, you have made me as happy as any woman ever made any man, though in saying so I’m showing myself to be what every man is—selfish. Yet I like to believe that you will be glad to know that the happy days we spent together before I knew I loved you, the happy days we have shared since we knew we loved one another, have made up, to me at least, for everything that has come to pass. The thankfulness and wonder that one so unworthy as myself should have been blessed with your love will remain with me to the very end, and, I firmly believe, beyond.
I know you well enough to feel quite sure that you will not be hurt, still less surprised, to receive none of those last words and messages which only satisfy the morbid, horrible curiosity of a callous, cruel world. And so good-bye, my own, my only, love.
Jean Bower put the letter back in its envelope and thrust it in her bosom. She walked through the wood on to the now deserted stretch of downland that had been turned into a golf course by the enterprising municipality of Grendon.
Beyond the course there were a few pretty houses which now, in the deepening twilight, were being lighted up, and all at once Jean, in the midst of her agonized and bewildered questionings, remembered that in one of these houses lived Mr. and Mrs. Toogood and their only daughter. She remembered having gone there last August with her aunt to call on Mrs. Toogood.
She quickened her steps, and striking across the links, soon reached Mr. Toogood’s house.
In answer to her ring, a maid opened the door.
“Is Mr. Toogood back yet from his office? Could I see him?” asked Jean. “I won’t keep him five minutes, but it’s very urgent!”