They passed from the Engadine to Salmezzo, a little village which nestles among the hills which overlook Lake Como. It was from there that the letter in question was written. After a page or two about nothing in particular it went on like this:--
"I don't want to make mountains out of molehills, and I don't wish you to misunderstand me; but I am beginning to wonder if there is not something abnormal about the young lady whom I am supposed to chaperon. In so rich, so young, and so beautiful a girl--and I think she grows more beautiful daily--this horror of one's fellow-creatures--carried to the extent she carries it--is in itself abnormal. But, lately, there has been something more. She is physically, or mentally, unwell; which of the two I can't decide. I am not in the least bit morbid; but, really, if you had been watching her--and, circumstanced as I am, you can't help watching her--you would begin to think she must be haunted. It's getting on my nerves. Usually, I should describe her as one of the most self-possessed persons I had ever met; but, during the last week or two, she has taken to starting--literally--at shadows.
"The other day, at the end of the little avenue of trees which runs in front of my bedroom, right before my eyes, she stopped and leaned against one of the trees, as if for support. I wondered what she meant by it--the attitude was such an odd one. Presently a man came along the road, and strode past the gate. The nearer he came the more she slunk behind the tree. When he had passed she crouched down behind the tree, and began to cry. How she did cry! While I was hesitating whether I ought to go to her or not, apparently becoming conscious that she might be overlooked, she suddenly got up and--still crying--rushed off among the trees.
"Now who did she think that man was she heard coming along the road? Why did she cry like that when she found it wasn't he? Were they tears of relief or disappointment? It seemed very odd.
"Again, one afternoon she went for a drive with me; it is not often that she will go anywhere with me, especially for a drive, but that afternoon the suggestion actually came from her. After we had gone some distance we alighted from the vehicle to walk to a point from which a famous view can be obtained. All at once, stopping, she caught me by the arm.
"'Who's that speaking?' she asked. Up to then I had not been conscious that anyone was speaking. But, as we stood listening, I gradually became conscious, in the intense silence, of a distant murmur of voices which was just, and only just, audible. Her hearing must be very acute. 'It is an English voice which is speaking,' she said. She dragged me off the path among the shadow of the trees. She really did drag; but I was so taken aback by the extraordinary look which came upon her face, and by the strangeness of her tone, that I was incapable of offering the least resistance. On a sudden she had become an altogether different person; a dreadful one, it seemed to me. Although I was conscious of the absurdity of our crouching there among the trees, I could not say so--simply because I was afraid of her. At last she said, as if to herself, 'It's not his voice.' Then she gave a gasp, or a groan, or sigh-- I don't know what it was. I could feel her shuddering; it affected me most unpleasantly. Presently two perfectly inoffensive young Englishmen, who were staying at our hotel, came strolling by. Fortunately they did not look round. If they had seen us hiding there among the trees I don't know what they would have thought.
"I have only given you two instances. But recently, she is always doing ridiculous things like that, which, although they are ridiculous, are disconcerting. She certainly is unwell mentally, or physically, or both; but not only so. I seriously do believe she's haunted. Not by anything supernatural, but by something, perhaps, quite ordinary. There may be some episode in her life which we know nothing of, and which it might be much better for her if we did, and that haunts her. I should not like to venture to hint at what may be its exact nature; because I have no idea; but I would not mind hazarding a guess that it has something to do with a man."
Mrs Plummer's sagacity was not at fault; it had something to do with a man--her husband. She had hoped that constant wandering might help her to banish him from her mind--him and another man. The contrary proved to be the case. The farther she went the more present he seemed to be--they both seemed to be.
And, lately, the thing had become worse. She had begun to count the hours which still remained before the prison gates should be reopened. So swiftly the time grew shorter. When they were reopened, what would happen then? Now she was haunted; what Mrs Plummer had written was true. Day and night she feared to see his face; she trembled lest every unknown footstep might be his. A strange voice made her heart stand still.
The absurdity of the thing did not occur to her? she was so wholly obsessed by its horror. Again Mrs Plummer was right, she was unwell both mentally and physically. The burden which was weighing on her, body and soul, was rapidly becoming heavier than she could bear. She magnified it till it filled her whole horizon. Look where she would it was there, the monster who--it seemed to her, at any moment--might spring out at her from behind the prison gates. The clearness of her mental vision was becoming obscured, the things she saw were distorted out of their true proportions.