“Hush!” exclaimed Maurice, and then they heard the rumbling of wheels that stopped suddenly before the door, and the loud pealing of a bell through the house.
“The carriage! the carriage!” cried Nea, and the flush rose to her face as she started to her feet, but Maurice did not answer; he was grasping the table to support himself, and felt as though another moment’s suspense would be intolerable.
“A letter for Mrs. Trafford,” observed the landlady in solemn awe-struck tones, “and a man in livery and the cabman are bringing in some boxes.”
“What boxes?” exclaimed Nea; but as she tore open the letter and glanced over the contents a low cry escaped her.
“Maurice! Maurice!” cried the poor child; and Maurice, taking it from her, read it once, twice, thrice, growing whiter and whiter with each perusal, and then sunk on a chair, hiding his face in his hands, with a groan. “Oh! my darling,” he gasped, “I have ruined you; my darling, for whom I would willingly have died, I have ruined and brought you to beggary.”
They had sinned, and beyond doubt their sin was a heavy one; but what father, if he had any humanity, could have looked at those two desolate creatures, so young, and loving each other so tenderly, and would not have had pity on them?
The letter was as follows—
“Madame,—I am directed by Mr. Huntingdon to inform you that from this day he will hold no communication with you or your husband.
“He wishes me to add that he has sent all clothes, jewels, and personal effects belonging to his daughter Nea Huntingdon, now styling herself Nea Trafford, to the inclosed address, and he has directed his manager, Mr. Dobson, to strike Mr. Maurice Trafford’s name from the list of clerks. Any attempts to open any further correspondence with Mr. Huntingdon will be useless, as all such letters will be returned or destroyed.
“I remain, madame,
“Your humble servant,
”Sister Teresa.”