‘Elly,’ said the curate, ‘I know nothing about it—but I am sure that is not true.’
‘Oh, you should see the letter,’ she cried, with a faint laugh. The clouds with a crimson tinge had wrapped her face in gloom and shame. Then she paused and put her hands to her eyes to hide the quick-coming tears. ‘Why should one be ashamed?’ she said. ‘I was not ashamed before. It was I who insisted before; for I was quite sure—quite sure—— And now what am I to think? for he has given me up, Susie, he has given me up!’
Susie kept her head bent over her work.
‘Because,’ she said, ‘of something he has found out?’
‘Because of—yes—yes. Read it, if you like—anyone may read it. Because he thought his father was dead and he finds out now that he is alive; but what is his father to me? No father can make a slave of Jack, for he is a man. What have I do with his father, Susie?’
Susie’s work served her no longer as a shield. It dropped from her hands: she was very pale, everything swam before her eyes.
‘Oh, what is it—what is it—what is it?’ cried Elly, clapping her hands together with a frenzy of eagerness and anxiety and curiosity, which resounded through the silence of the house.
CHAPTER XII.
JOHN’S LETTER.
The letter which had been received that morning, and had thrown the rectory into the deepest dismay ran thus:
‘Dearest Elly,