“Oh, Sir! please, please do take it!” said the girl earnestly. “I did wrong, I’m afraid, in giving her the first; but I can’t do wrong again, when my poor mistress is dying in the house. I can’t keep secrets, Sir, that may be bad secrets, at such a dreadful time as this; I couldn’t have laid down in my bed to-night, when there’s likely to be death in the house, if I hadn’t confessed what I’ve done; and my poor mistress has always been so kind and good to us servants—better than ever we deserved.”
Weeping bitterly as she said this, the kind-hearted girl held out the letter to me once more. This time I took it from her, and looked at the address.
Though I did not know the handwriting, still there was something in those unsteady characters which seemed familiar to me. Was it possible that I had ever seen them before? I tried to consider; but my memory was confused, my mind wearied out, after all that had happened since the morning. The effort was fruitless: I gave back the letter.
“I know as little about it, Susan, as you do.”
“But ought I to take it up-stairs, Sir? only tell me that!”
“It is not for me to say. All interest or share on my part, Susan, in what she—in what your young mistress receives, is at an end.”
“I’m very sorry to hear you say that, Sir; very, very sorry. But what would you advise me to do?”
“Let me look at the letter once more.”
On a second view, the handwriting produced the same effect on me as before, ending too with just the same result. I returned the letter again.
“I respect your scruples, Susan, but I am not the person to remove or to justify them. Why should you not apply in this difficulty to your master?”