“I do not wish to bet anything, Colonel Clutterbuck,” said Lucille grandly, “nor should I take money into consideration on a question of marriage. But I am quite content with my life as it is, and have no desire to alter it.”
“Ah! You’re waiting for a title, Mrs. der Vin-yay,” replied the Senator, “that’s where it is. You’ll never tell me that a fine woman like yourself means to remain single for the rest of her life. But you’re gone on these English aristocrats, like the gals in my country, and nothing will satisfy you but to be a duchess or a countess.”
“Colonel Clutterbuck, your remarks are positively offensive, and I must entreat you to turn your conversation to something else. I thank you for your offer, but I can never accept it. Come indoors and let me give you a song. I had a parcel of new ones down from London last week.” She drew her lace wrap about her as she spoke, and turned to re-enter the house. Her handsome face looked proud and cold under the moonlight, but her heart was throbbing warmly against Lord Francis Onslow’s card, which she carried in her bosom. She was not really faithful, or affectionate, but she had set her mind upon capturing and holding this man (as a woman sometimes sets her mind upon a spaniel or a bonnet), and would not rest until she had achieved her purpose. In like manner the American Senator had set his mind upon her, but he would not break his heart over her refusal. He had thought she would make a splendid picture at the head of his New York table, and an enviable wife to present to his friends, but if she couldn’t accept his pile of dollars, he concluded that some other lady would. So they parted on their usual terms, and Lucille even asked him to repeat his visit on the first opportunity. The next morning, when her maid brought her letters into her room with her coffee, she was struck by the appearance among them of a pale buff letter, stamped on the top “On H. M. Service,” and on the bottom, “Dead Letter Office.”
“What is that, Rose?” she cried.
“I do not know, madame, but it was left here with the other letters, so I thought I had better bring it up to you.”
Lucille had by this time seized the envelope and read the superscription:
“Frank Doggie, Esq., The Grange, Chiddingford, Haslemere.”
“How strange,” she laughed. “Who is Mr. Frank Doggie, and why do they send his letters here?”
“Shall I return it to the postman, madame?”
“No! It would be useless. I will keep it a little while. It may be inquired for.” So the maid retired, leaving the letter behind her. It seemed to fascinate Lucille; though she had the morning papers and several letters of her own to peruse, her eyes kept turning toward the buff envelope with marked curiosity, until she took it up again and examined it carefully. What right had Mr. Doggie to have the name of Frank?—that name above all others so dear to her. The fact alone seemed to make the letter her property. It had come from the Dead Letter Office. That showed that all reasonable inquiries had been made for the owner without avail. There could be no harm, then, in her reading it, for the more she regarded it, the more curious she became to learn its contents, so without further ado, she tore it open. It contained an envelope addressed to “Mrs. Right, Prospect Hotel, Harrogate,” and scribbled all over, both in red and black ink, and in various signatures, with the words, “Not known here,” “Gone away,” “No such person,” etc. This was the letter (as may be remembered) that Lord Francis wrote with such a beating heart to his wife on the night of De Mürger’s murder, and left, in his subsequent horror and confusion, on the table in his bedroom. When he had gone, the servants carried it to the landlord, who, knowing no one of the name of “Right,” had delivered it over to the Post-office. And so it had gone the round of Harrogate, being repudiated everywhere, and finally found its way to London, and was opened and returned to the address engraved on the note-paper. “Mrs. Right and Mr. Doggie.” Mme. de Vigny laughed at the strange conjunction of names, as she prepared to find out what Doggie and Right had to say to each other. But she did not laugh long. The first words her eyes lit upon made the color fade from her cheek, while her hand clenched savagely over the unoffending paper. They were the words Frank had poured forth in the anguish of his soul at Fenella’s feet: