“No. I wish to know where Miss Dunross is.”
“Miss Dunross is in her room. She has sent me with this letter.”
I took the letter, feeling some surprise and uneasiness. It was the first time Miss Dunross had communicated with me in that formal way. I tried to gain further information by questioning her messenger.
“Are you Miss Dunross’s maid?” I asked.
“I have served Miss Dunross for many years,” was the answer, spoken very ungraciously.
“Do you think she would receive me if I sent you with a message to her?”
“I can’t say, sir. The letter may tell you. You will do well to read the letter.”
We looked at each other. The woman’s preconceived impression of me was evidently an unfavorable one. Had I indeed pained or offended Miss Dunross? And had the servant—perhaps the faithful servant who loved her—discovered and resented it? The woman frowned as she looked at me. It would be a mere waste of words to persist in questioning her. I let her go.
Left by myself again, I read the letter. It began, without any form of address, in these lines:
“I write, instead of speaking to you, because my self-control has already been severely tried, and I am not strong enough to bear more. For my father’s sake—not for my own—I must take all the care I can of the little health that I have left.