His own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slips of parchment—
Mr Vivian Ryecroft, Passenger to London, G.W.R.
He cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion; again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately—rashly.
In fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him—he will write to her. Not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. He is too proud, and still too doubting for that. Only a test letter to draw her out, and if possible, discover how she too feels under the circumstances. Upon the answer—if he receive one—will depend whether it is to be the last.
With pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of notepaper towards him. It bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address—only the date.
This done, he remains for a time considering—thinking what he should say. The larger portion of his manhood’s life spent in camp, under canvas—not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style—he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. But the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity he puts them down—quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch.
With this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. He dreads another change of resolution. Folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes—
Miss Wynn, Llangorren Court.
Then rings a bell—the hotel servants are now astir—and directs the letter to be dropped into the post box.
He knows it will reach her that same day, at an early hour, and its answer him—should one be vouchsafed—on the following morning. It might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going—as his letter tells, the “Langham, London.”