“No! no! Mr. Barnsdale, that must not be,” said Letty, drawing her hand across her brow as if bewildered. “I am so dizzy!—but that must not be. Stay you here. You cannot leave this post. I will go myself.”
“You go, madam! No, you cannot—must not.”
“Yes, I will go myself. O God, what a misery! But run, Mr. Barnsdale, secure the whole inside of the three o’clock coach, if possible. I will be ready.”
Barnsdale looked aghast, perplexed to absolute despair; but Letty hastened away, and sent off the carriage post-haste for her brother George. She then set to work, ordered the nurse to be ready with the child for an instant journey to London; put up a few things for herself, and awaited her brother. In less than two hours he was there, and the awful disclosure made. George was furious. Like Barnsdale, he was for going off at once and inflicting summary vengeance on the traitor. “What a viper! what a devil!” he exclaimed; “but he shall repent this foul, this diabolical wrong. Oh, my poor, dear Letty!” and he embraced his sister with passionate tears.
But Letty succeeded in showing him that it was better for her to go. She would take the child—that would move him if anything would—and George should accompany her to support her when it was necessary. George set off in haste for a change of linen and overcoat, and at three o’clock the sad party were seated in the London coach. Barnsdale had luckily secured the whole inside, so that, the nurse travelling occasionally outside well wrapped up, George and Letty could talk freely on their melancholy topic, and the child could lie during the night on the front seat as snug as in his cradle.
We must not describe that sad, long, and for the most part silent journey. About ten in the morning the coach drove into the court of that old-fashioned, but then greatly frequented inn, the Swan-with-Two-Necks, in Lad-lane. There they descended, washed, redressed, and made such a breakfast as people in their state of mind could. George sent out into Wood-street to inquire if Mr. Thorsby was yet at the warehouse, and received for reply that he was not expected till twelve o’clock. A coach was at once ordered, and the whole party entered it and drove to Bond-street. It was stopped within fifty yards of the house sought, and George and Letty descended and walked on, followed by the nurse and child, which looked as bright as a child of six months can after a night’s journey, through which it had slept like a top, and in a world whose trouble does not concern it. Arrived at the door, Letty seemed as though she would sink, but George encouraged her to hold up and go through it in reliance on God. The door was opened by a servant, who asked their names, and said she would inquire if Mr. Thorsby were in. But Letty did not give her the opportunity of bringing a “No;” she took the child in her arms, and followed on the servant’s heels.
“You had better wait here, ma’am,” said the servant.
“Go on!” said Letty, authoritatively.
The girl looked astonished, but obeyed. Ascending the first flight of stairs, she opened a door into a large and handsomely furnished room, and said, “A lady, sir!”
Letty stepped in, and stood with the child on her arm. There sat the delinquent husband, in his morning-gown and slippers, reading the newspaper, and on the opposite side of the breakfast-table sat a very handsome young woman, of by no means unamiable appearance. The sight of Letty, however, produced a wondrous change. Thorsby started to his feet, and stood as rooted to the ground. His look was that rather of a ghost than of a living man. Pale as death, he trembled from head to foot like an aspen leaf. His female friend stood, a monument of terror, shame, and confusion. It was evident that she knew Mrs. Thorsby perfectly. But Letty, with a calmness with which heaven itself must have endowed her, advanced to Thorsby, and said, holding up the child towards him, “My dear Henry, I am not come to reproach you, but to reclaim you. Let this young woman retire, I would speak to you alone.”