A fortnight before she had opened it without a thought of prudence, without a glance at the consequences. But a fortnight, and such a fortnight, had taught her much. And to-day she paused. She eyed the coarse paper askance—with repugnance, with loathing. True, it could no longer harm her. She had seen the man as he was, stripped of his disguises. She had read in his face his meanness, his falseness, his cowardice. And henceforth his charms and cajoleries, his sweet words and lying looks were not for her. But she had to think what might be in this letter, and what might come of it, and what she should do. She might burn it unread—and perhaps that were the safer course. Or she might hand it to the Bow Street runner, or she might open it and read it.
Which should she do?
One course she rejected without much thought. To hand the letter to Bishop might be to betray the man to Bishop. And she had made up her mind not to betray the man.
Should she burn it?
Her reason whispered that that was the right, that that was the wise course. But then she would never know what was in the letter; and she was a woman and curious. And reason, quickly veering, suggested that to burn it was to incur unknown risks and contingencies. It might be equivalent to giving the man up. It might—in a word, it opened a world of possibilities.
And after all she could still burn the letter when she had read it. She would know then what she was doing. And what danger could she incur, seeing that she was proof against the man’s lying tongue, and shuddered at the thought of contact with him?
She made up her mind. And roughly, hating the task after a fashion, she tore the letter open. With hot cheeks—it could not be otherwise, since the writing was his, and brought back such memories—she read the contents. There was no opening—she was glad of that—and no signature. Thus it ran:—
“I have treated you ill, but men are not as women, and I was tempted, God knows. I do not ask you to forgive me, but I ask you to save me. I am in your hands. If you have the heart to leave me to a violent death, all is said. If you have mercy, meet my messenger at ten to-morrow evening, where the Troutbeck lane comes down to the lake. As I hope to live you run no risk and can suffer no harm. If you are merciful—and oh, for God’s sake spare me—put a stone before noon to-morrow on the post of the second gate towards Ambleside.”
CHAPTER XV
THE ANSWER
When Henrietta had read this letter twice, shivering and drawing in her breath as often as she came to the passionate cry for mercy that broke its current, she sat gazing at the paper. And her face was rigid. Had he made appeal to her affection, to the past, to that which had been between them, still more had he assumed that the spell was unbroken and her heart was his, her pride had revolted and revolted passionately. She had spurned the letter and the writer. And perhaps, when it was too late, she had repented.