She took it absently; her eyes turned wistfully to Delia, but she, with the slightest cold inclination of her head, left the room without a word.
Lady Dalrymple, chilled and repulsed, even more lonely than before this stranger’s coming, sat down again by the fire and the tears welled up into her large eyes.
Yet she was glad that she had spoken about the Macdonalds; something she knew and something she guessed of the plans being laid for their destruction, and it had troubled her; now this girl could see to it that they were saved.
But she might have to pay the price; she remembered the Viscount’s last words, “John is reckless and violent,” still she was glad of what she had done.
Her glance fell to Mr. Wharton’s letter; she broke the seal and opened it; spread it out in the fading light of the winter afternoon and read:
January 10, 1692.
My Lady,
I have been away, or I had sooner answered your letter, which giveth me surprise as well as pain. You ask me to no longer attend you at your house, as Sir John speaketh of me with increased dislike and cannot bear even the mention of my name. I cannot understand that you should pay any attention to a silly prejudice unworthy of a man of sense. Sir John is at full liberty to tell me himself what he mislikes in my conduct, which never (as you can bear me witness) has been in any way offensive to him or wanting in the respect that I, in common with every Whig, have for his abilities. If any fancied affront irks him, he knows how to obtain satisfaction, and I trust that he will either take this course or meet me with the courtesy that I shall always be ready to offer him and that you will not suffer his whim to interrupt a friendship that I have the vanity to believe is not displeasing to you, and is the greatest of honors to your ladyship’s humble servant,
Thomas Wharton.
Lady Dalrymple folded the letter away slowly; she was not clever at reading between the lines, and fine phrasing a little confused her; but she caught the spirit of the writer; she saw that it only needed a word from her for Tom Wharton to challenge her husband on the first excuse that came. It was a curious thought; Tom Wharton had fought no duel in which he had not killed or (through good nature) disarmed his man; his perfect swordsmanship was a charm that kept men civil to him through all the offenses of his lax and lazy life, since a duel with him was death or the disgrace of mercy given; she knew her husband’s temper too well to think he would accept the last.