“I cannot believe it,” came from Ethel, but her words lacked the accent of conviction.
“It is hard to believe, is it not, that any man should be such a villain? But, for all that, it’s the simple truth, as I can prove in a way which even you will find it impossible to dispute. If you will allow me, I will sit down, for the truth is I shake like an aspen.”
“Pray pardon my forgetfulness,” said Ethel, and with that she seated herself on a sofa a little distance away.
“I think he must have been fond of me at one time, or he would never have written me the letters he did,” resumed Hetty presently. Ethel’s eyes were fixed intently on her. She sat leaning a little forward, her hands with tightly interlocked fingers resting on her lap. At the word “letters” she could not repress a start.
“Though I began to suspect latterly,” continued Hetty, “that he was no longer quite as fond of me as he used to be, I did not doubt his love, and, least of all, did I think he would behave to me as only a scoundrel could behave. I had a number of letters from him at different times—eight in all. He used to go over to Dulminster twice a week to see me. He knew where I kept the letters—in a little workbox which stood on the sideboard in my mother’s parlour where we used to sit together. Well, one afternoon, when he knew I was from home, he came to the house, and having sent my mother out on an errand, while she was gone, he broke open my workbox and stole my letters—that is to say, his letters to me; and from that day to this I have never set eyes on him, nor heard from him in any way. And the man who did that was Mr. Launce Keymer.”
Ethel sat as one bereft of speech. It was as if the tides of her physical life had been arrested in full flow and sent surging back to overwhelm heart and brain alike, only to be released a few moments later and let go madly on their way. As yet but one coherent thought could frame itself in her mind: “And this is the man whose promised wife I am!”
Then she became conscious that Hetty was speaking again.
“I told you just now, Miss Thursby, that I had eight letters in all from him, but there were only six in the workbox when he rifled it. The remaining two were in a drawer in my bedroom. I have brought them with me to-day for you to read if you would like to do so.”
“Not for worlds!” gasped Ethel.
“You are quite welcome to do so. You would then see for yourself how he used to write of me as his ‘darling Hetty,’ and his ‘sweet little wife that is to be.’ What wretches some men are, to be sure!”