As for Walter, he knew not what to say or think. He dared not speak his fears out loud lest he should wound his father, whose distress he could not help seeing. He would have volunteered to do anything and everything, only he did not know exactly where to begin or what to propose. At length Mr Huntingdon, turning to the old butler, who was moving about in a state of great uneasiness, said, “Do you know, Harry, at what hour Mr Amos left this morning?”
“No, sir, not exactly. But when Jane came down early and went to open the front door, she found the chain and the bolts drawn and the key turned back. It was plain that some one had gone out that way very early.”
“And when did you get your note from Amos, Kate?” asked her brother.
“My maid found it half slipped under my door when she came to call me,” was the reply.
“And is there nothing, then, to throw light on this sudden and strange act on Amos’s part?” asked the squire.
“Well, there is,” she answered rather reluctantly. “My maid has found a little crumpled up sheet of paper, which Amos must have accidentally dropped as he left his room. I don’t know whether I ought to have taken charge of it; but, as it is, the best thing I can do is to hand it to you.”
Mr Huntingdon took it from her, and his hand shook with emotion as he glanced at it. It was a small sheet of note-paper, and there was writing on two sides in a female hand, but the lines were uneven, and it seemed as though the writer had been, for some reason or other, unable to use the pen steadily. Mr Huntingdon hesitated for a moment. Had he any right to read a communication which was addressed to another? Not, surely, under ordinary circumstances. But the circumstances now were not ordinary; and he was the father of the person to whom the letter was addressed, and by reading it he might take steps to preserve his son from harm, or might bring him out of difficulties. So he decided to read the letter, and judge by its contents whether he was bound to secrecy as to those contents or no. But, as he read, the colour fled from his face, and a cold perspiration burst out upon him. What could the letter mean? Was the writer sane? And if not, oh, misery! then there was a second wreck of reason in the family; for the handwriting was his daughter’s, and the signature at the foot of the paper was hers too. With heaving breast and tearful eyes he handed the letter to his sister, whose emotion was almost as distressing as his own as she read the following strange and almost incoherent words:—
“Amos,—I’m mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. He will take them both away. He will ruin us all, body and soul.”
Then there was a break. The words hitherto had been written in a steady hand; those which followed were wavering, as though penned against the will of the writer, and under fear of some one standing by. They were as follows:—
“Come to me early to-morrow morning. You will see a man at the farther side of Marley Heath on horseback—follow him, and he will bring you to me, for I am not where I was. Come alone, or the man will not wait for you, and then you will never be seen again in this world by your wretched sister,—Julia.”