"What you had to tell me in your last letter anent the Hon. Mrs. Bullivant took me by surprise, as you said it would; but I'm afraid my disposition is not of a sufficiently forgiving kind to allow of my stating, with any regard for truth, that I feel sorry for her, because I certainly do nothing of the kind.
"My surprise arises from the fact that she--of all women I have ever known the most unlikely--should have allowed herself to be so thoroughly hoodwinked as she seems to have been over her marriage with the Earl of Mortlake. Of course she was dazzled by the prospect of becoming a countess, and by the likelihood--you say she regarded it as a certainty--that in less than a twelvemonth she would be left a widow (a titled widow with a handsome jointure), such a mere wreck of humanity was his lordship, to all seeming, when she accepted him, besides being more than double her age.
"If this latter consideration was--and you appear to have no doubt on the point--her chief reason for becoming his wife, then, indeed, must her awakening have been anything but a pleasant one when she found that the man who had been carried into the church by four of his tenants, so feeble did he seem, was able, as soon as the ceremony was over, not merely to walk unassisted out of the sacred edifice, but to offer his bride the support of his arm. What a genuine comedy scene it must have been for everybody there, save and except her newly-made ladyship!
"And now you tell me that his lordship is likely to live for a dozen years to come. I know that he has been married twice before, and that he has the reputation of being one of the most brutal and unfeeling of husbands, a reputation with which it is hard to believe his present wife can have been unacquainted.
"Yes, on consideration I think I can afford to forget bygones, and to spare a little pity for my lady countess. Hers is indeed an unhappy fate; nor will she derive much consolation from the knowledge that she owes it wholly to herself.
"I have kept a very singular bit of news till the last.
"You may remember that when we came here we brought with us the dumb man, Andry Luce, who had been my Uncle Cortelyon's secretary and factotum, and about whom you have often heard me speak. Notwithstanding his infirmity, Geoffrey found him very useful in keeping the books and accounts of the large property of which my husband has the management. He was deeply attached to me, and I had a very warm regard for him.
"Well, I am grieved to have to relate that the poor fellow has come to a sad end. About a fortnight ago he was fatally injured while trying to stop a runaway horse and vehicle. Some days passed before he succumbed to his injuries, and it was while he lay dying (I am thankful to say he did not suffer much) that he confessed something to me which perhaps I might otherwise have gone to the grave without knowing.
"You and I, my dear godmother, in days gone by, more than once bewildered our brains in trying to solve the mystery of my uncle's unsigned will, for if he had not believed it to be signed, why should he have been so anxious in his last moments, as he certainly was, to have it destroyed?
"This was the puzzle which Andry's confession--spelled out to me word by word on his fingers after the manner of dumb people--solved once for all.