"Where's the note?... Did she name any time?" To this Miss Harmood, overstepping delicacy, and speaking, as it were, with the direct voice, replies:
"Mrs. Challis said no time, sir, but you would know. She took her things to stay, and the young ladies, and went about three."
"About three." Mrs. Steptoe confirms, adding: "The note is left on the 'all-table." This anticipates the question on Challis's lips, and also reinstates delicacy, making further direct communication unnecessary.
Challis says abruptly, "You had better get back to bed, both of you!" and goes to bring the lamp from the bedroom. He sees at once that he had overlooked the letter, which must have been at the bottom of the handful he brought up. Of course, it would be, if it was written before three. All those later letters would have hidden it.
Yes—there it was, directed to "Mr. Challis" and nothing else. He brought to the surface a memory of having noticed it at first, and thought it a tradesman's account or a begging application. Now he could see the handwriting. He could not have said whether he was more anxious or afraid to open it. Perhaps the former, so great was his wish to know how it would begin. But it had no definite beginning, such as letters usually have.
"You do not really care for me, so I have made up my mind to leave you—it is all at an end between us, for you do not really care for me—now you can go away to Miss Arkroyd if she will have you—it will not be bigamy, and you know why—I am Kate's sister, and we cannot be legally Man and Wife—mamma has said so all along.
"Oh, Titus, how could you show that letter—could I have acted by you like that?—to show it to that woman to read before you—think if it had been me—my letter showed to some gentleman you half knew, and me not seen it first—oh, Titus—but it is good-bye.
"Besides, I know, because of the garden all by yourselves—Charlotte says so."
Challis started to his feet as he read these words. "I knew it—I knew it!" he cried to the empty air. "Oh, damn that woman!—with all my heart and soul, damn that woman!" He added, without circumlocution, words to the effect that if ever a woman of infamous character existed, she was one. It seemed to soothe him; and after pacing the room once or twice with the letter in his hand, he came back to the lamp, and went on reading:
"Charlotte says so—only it is only the sort of thing I mean—I have no accusation to make—you must believe what I say—it is what I know you feel I go by—and I think most women would, too. If you had cared for me you could not have done it, but though you have behaved so to me I shall try to forgive you, though I have quite made up my mind that we must part.
"Dear Titus, I know I have often been short-tempered, but that is another thing—now good-bye.
"Affectly. yours,
"Marianne Craik."
The name was on the fourth line of the last page, though a postscript followed. Challis broke out impatiently into a sort of painful half-laugh, as his eye caught his wife's maiden name. "What folly!" cried he. "What sheer, unqualified folly! Polly Anne!—just fancy! Why—she is my wife: nothing can make her anything else." And then he went on to the postscript.
"Postscript.—I have taken away the children, because they are my own. You can ask Mr. Tillingfleet—because he told me—I suppose a lawyer knows——" Here the writing turned sideways, running up the paper-edge: "It is no use your coming to see me—my mind is made up." Then a further continuation, rather illegible on the paper-edge, Challis made out to be: "I will not say, God forgive you, because you do not believe in God."