“A letter, please, sir,” said a voice outside—the voice of Hannah, who, not finding her summons for admittance, promptly answered, had “tried the door,” and that method of ingress having proved an unsuccessful one, she, with laudable perseverance, had hit upon another plan for the attainment of her object.
“A letter, please, sir,” and, in a lower voice at the key-hole, “I think it is from the young missus.”
The words, as Hannah had anticipated, acted like a charm. In a moment the door flew open under John’s eager hand, and seizing the letter (it was the one which Honor had written previous to her departure, and which had remained ever since its delivery under Hannah’s watchful care), he speedily succeeded, though the daylight was waning fast, in making himself master of its contents.
As he read the simple words—very simple they were, and childish, but each one carrying with it a proof of the writer’s innocence and truth—the light of hope dawned once more on poor John’s darkened brain, and big tears of gratitude broke from his wearied eyes. Surprised, worn out both physically and mentally, for he had been more than thirty hours without rest or food, he could at first scarcely bring himself to understand the relief which, nevertheless, he felt was a great and blessed one. Laying his head down on his folded arms, with one short but fervent ejaculation of thankfulness hovering on his parched lips, the man whose iron frame had hitherto seemed almost impervious to fatigue, and proof against the ordinary ills that flesh is heir to, grew gradually insensible to outer things, losing all sense whether of joy or sorrow, in the heavy and lethargic slumber which is too often the precursor of serious illness.
Once and again, treading softly and on tiptoe, the old woman, anxious and miserable, stole to the side of the motionless figure, wondering at this unnatural quiet. But Hannah bade her not to worry herself.
“It’s just nothing but being fairly worn out,” she said, “and who’s to wonder, I should like to know?” she went on defiantly. “A man, if he’s as strong as Samson, can’t abear being worritted for ever. Any way,” the worthy creature said to herself, “I’m glad I kept the letter, maybe missus would have nobbled it; so she might. There’s never no knowing what some folks is up to;” and Hannah chuckled inwardly, as she set the tea-things in preparation for the master’s waking.
But neither on that occasion, nor for many a day afterwards, did “the master,” who was so beloved by all who knew him, join in the daily meals, the regular partaking of which those who lead a simple life in farmhouses are wont to consider as absolutely necessary for the sustainment of the vital principle existing within the human frame. John awoke from the death-like slumber into which he had fallen with shivering limbs and an aching head; symptoms which even Mrs. Beacham’s limited experience told her denoted the commencement of a violent fever; and such in fact it proved. For many days John’s life was in serious danger; in such danger that the country folk, coming from miles around to learn news of his condition, lingered about for hours near the door, expecting—fearing to hear the worst. In such danger, that the poor old woman, his mother, knew no rest either by night or day, for at the pillow on which the fevered head lay tossing restlessly, she listened remorsefully to his delirious ravings, ravings in which were mingled in strange confusion the names of his lost Honor and of Arthur’s “murdered” wife.
CHAPTER XXIII.
HONOR RECEIVES A LETTER.
In the mean while Honor, unconscious of the events that had occurred, and the calamities which had befallen those in whom she was so deeply interested, had supported for another weary night and day the suspense which she found hourly more difficult of endurance. Then the courage that had hitherto supported her began to flag, and she half resolved—wholly objectionable as was the plan, and revolting to every feeling of womanly modesty—to endeavour by inquiry at Arthur’s house to obtain some information concerning him. That some evil, some sudden accident or grievous sickness, had overtaken her only friend, Honor could not but believe; and it was this belief, joined to a certain pride which lingered in her still (for, after all, Arthur might be simply false), that prevented her from having recourse to her former plan—namely, that of writing to Arthur at his house or at his club. To sally forth after dark; to call a cab, and to be driven to within a few yards of Mr. Duberly’s house; and when there to make a few insignificant inquiries of the servant which might lead to something like elucidation of her doubts and fears, seemed a plan not very difficult of execution; and Honor was still pondering on its expediency when to her surprise (for she had ceased to expect such consolations) a letter was put into her hand by Mrs. Casey—a letter, too, which she perceived at once was from Arthur Vavasour.
Hurrying with her treasure into the inner room, which was her bedchamber, and utterly regardless of Mrs. Casey’s feelings as a friend and would-be confidante, Honor tore open the envelope, when the first writing that met her eye was her own! Casting the note directed by herself impatiently on one side, she opened another inclosure—one of deeply-bordered mourning-paper, and read as follows: