Mr. Hawtrey made but a few hours' stay in London, Dorothy urging her
father to leave at once for home. He would have preferred stopping for a
day or two to confer with Mr. Charles Levine, and to get the matter with
the jeweller settled before he went North, but Dorothy pressed the point
so much that he gave way.
'What is the use, father,' she urged, 'of employing people to do your
law business and then doing it yourself? I should think when Gilliat
sees a copy of those papers Mr. Danvers sent us, he will be convinced
that he has been wrong all through, but even if he isn't, you could not
argue the matter with him. Mr. Levine could say a great deal more than
you could. I quite understand, from what you told me, that there is
really nothing to connect this woman with the theft; still, anyone could
see that it would be more likely that she should do it than I should.'
'Except this, Dorothy--that you were in London at the time, and there is
no proof that she was; and that these people all swear it was you, while
the most that we can prove is that there is in existence some one who is
wonderfully like you. It is an immense satisfaction to us to have got as
far as we have. We have, at any rate, a strong defence, and the story
will at least satisfy all who know you. Still, Singleton agrees with me
that a jury would hardly be satisfied, and that the verdict would
probably be against us.
'I don't expect the jeweller to give up his claim. I don't think it
would be reasonable to expect it. The man has been robbed of valuable
goods, and he and his two assistants were absolutely convinced that it
was you who took them. There were reports about that you were being
pressed for money; and our defence that a woman, so like you that your
portrait was taken for hers, crossed from Hamburg to New York a week
after the robbery, cannot be taken as conclusive that it was this woman
and not you who was at the jeweller's shop. My greatest comfort in the
matter is at present that this woman is at the other side of the
Atlantic, and I am quite prepared to meet the jeweller half-way and
share the loss with him if Levine does not think that in case this woman
does return, as it is almost certain she will do, and attempts similar
frauds, my having compromised the matter would weaken our position.'
'I see all that, father, but I don't see why you should not write about
it to Mr. Levine, instead of going into it with him personally. He is
sure to want you to stay in town, and then there is no saying how long
we might be kept. You will be up in town again in the spring.'
'Very well, Dorothy, we will start to-morrow morning. If Levine thinks
it is absolutely necessary he should see me I must run up again. The
train takes us so far towards home now that it is only eighteen hours'
travelling, and I must own that I shall be heartily glad to be at home
again. We have been away more than eight months, which is longer than I
can remember having been from home all my life.'
Mr. Singleton was glad when his friend told him that they would travel
down together.
'I would rather have stayed a couple of days, Singleton, but Dorothy has
set her mind upon starting at once.'
'I don't wonder at that; she has had a rough time of it altogether, and
must long for the quiet of home; besides, as you know, my theory is that
she refused to give any decided answer to Armstrong because of this
business. I should not be at all surprised if she is afraid he might get
to know she is in town and might call to see her, and she wants to have
time to think it over quietly before she has to give him a decided
answer one way or the other.'
'But you thought she would accept him, Singleton; you told me you had
quite made up your mind that she would do so.'
'Yes, I am almost sure that if it had not been for the affair of the
diamonds she would have done so any time during that last fortnight at
Chamounix; but, you see, she was under the spell of the place then, and
of the adventure on the glacier. She considered he had saved her life,
and no doubt he did, though I do not say the guides might not have
managed it somehow if left to themselves; still, we may put it that he
saved her. Of course that went for a great deal with her; before that I
don't think she thought about it. I watched her closely, and there was
really no difference in her manner to him and to Fitzwarren. She looked
upon them both simply as pleasant companions. I saw the change directly
afterwards. Then there is no denying he is a very good fellow in all
respects, and likely to take with ninety-nine girls out of a hundred, so
that I have no doubt she would have accepted him if it had not been for
this other business. Now, of course, she has been away from him a week.
The jewel business has to a great extent been cleared up. At any rate,
there is an explanation consistent with her innocence, which there was
not before, and she is therefore face to face with the question--shall
she accept Armstrong? She wants to think it over, and does not want to
be pressed; therefore, she is in a fever to get away down into the
country, before he can know that she has come back. I believe it will
come to the same thing. Perhaps she told him she would take him if she
felt free to do so. At any rate, Hampton has put himself out of the
running by his own folly, and I have nothing more to say on the matter.
However, I am glad we are all going back together.'
Accordingly the next morning they started by train, slept at Nottingham
that night, and then posted the remaining sixty miles.
Mr. Hawtrey saw with satisfaction that as soon as Dorothy took up her
own life again, her spirits, which had been very uneven since she left
Switzerland, began to return. There was much to occupy her--all her
pensioners in the village to visit, hours to be spent with the head
gardener in the greenhouses and conservatories, walks to be taken with
the dogs, and the horses to be visited and petted. Into all this she
threw herself with her whole energy. Her father had written a long
letter to Danvers on the morning after his return; ten days later the
reply came.
'My dear sir,--I have bad news to give you. I have been away on
the Continent for a fortnight, and only received your letter
this morning, and at the same time, one from Hampton. It was a
long chatty letter, giving me an amusing account of his voyage
to New Orleans. It was written a few hours after he landed
there, and he said that he was writing because the mail went
out next day, and he should keep it open in case he had any
news to send me. It is finished by some one else. Where Ned
left off are a few scrambling misspelt words, so badly written
that I had the greatest difficulty in making them out. I
transcribe them as sent.'
'Sir,--This hear is to tel you has the Captin as got a-stabed
by a niggur last nite, he his very bad but the docters thinks
he will git hover it.--JACOB.'
'What is it, father?' Dorothy asked, as he uttered an exclamation of
regret.
'It is from Danvers, my dear. He writes to tell me that he hears that
Ned Hampton has been badly hurt--stabbed, it seems, by some negro.'
Dorothy turned very pale, and set down the teapot hastily.
'He is not killed, father?'
'No; the person who writes says he is very bad, but the doctors think he
will get over it. Nothing more is known about it, he says. Hampton wrote
him a long, chatty letter, which he left unfinished, as the post was not
going out until next day. It was finished by some one else--a few
misspelt words'--and he read Jacob's addition.
'Here is a bit more. "As Hampton told me before he started that he had
taken a boy with him, as a sort of servant, I have just been to his old
lodgings in Jermyn Street, and find that the lad's name was Jacob. It is
a satisfaction to know that Hampton has some one with him who is
attached to him, even if only a boy, as I have no doubt this lad is, for
Hampton almost picked him off the street. I will let you know as soon as
I hear again."'
'This is a very bad business, Dorothy.'
'Very bad, father. I am indeed sorry. How could he have got into a
quarrel with a negro?'
'That is more than I can tell, dear. I would give a great deal if this
hadn't happened. I have an immense liking for the young fellow. I was
fond of him as a boy and he has grown up just as I thought he would--a
man one can rely upon in every emergency--clear-headed, sensible,
without a shadow of nonsense about him, and as true as steel. There, I
can eat no more breakfast,' and he pushed his plate from him and rising
hastily left the room. Dorothy went about the house with a pale face all
day. Her father rode off directly after breakfast to carry the news to
Singleton who was greatly distressed thereat.
'Did you tell Dorothy that it was at New Orleans?' he asked presently.
'No, I did not mention the place. I thought it was as well to wait until
we got another letter. Of course she knew from those affidavits that the
man and woman had gone down there.'
'I would have told her,' Mr. Singleton said. 'Ned begged us to say
nothing about it, and though I did not give any specific promise, I have
held my tongue thus far, though I have been strongly inclined to tell
her a dozen times; but there is no reason why she should not know it was
New Orleans. If she likes to put two and two together, she can. I wonder
whether this attack on him had anything to do with our affair.'
'That is what I was thinking as I rode over, Singleton. I don't see how
it could have done so. You see he had only just arrived there--but there
is no saying; the boy distinctly says it was a nigger, and it may only
have been an attempt at robbery. I suppose the letter was written in the
evening. If the boat had come in early he would have set about making
inquiries at once, but as he was evidently leaving it until the next
day, I take it he must have written after dinner and then gone out for a
stroll and perhaps got stabbed by some vagabond or other for the sake of
his watch.'
'How did Dorothy take it?'
'She seemed very sorry; but, in fact, I did not notice much. I was
regularly upset, and got out of the room as soon as I could, for if I
had talked about it I should have broken down. Poor lad, to think of his
having gone through half-a-dozen desperate fights in India and then to
be stabbed by a negro thief at New Orleans.'
'Evidently the boy thought there was some hope,' Mr. Singleton said; 'so
we must trust that the next letter will bring better news. I cannot
bring myself to believe that we are going to lose Ned Hampton in this
way.'
The days passed quietly. Dorothy had put off writing to Captain
Armstrong, telling herself that there was no hurry, for although, if he
met the Fortescues, he might learn she had returned to England, he would
not know that any change had occurred in reference to the matter of
which she had spoken to him. She had asked her father on the evening on
which the letter came to let her read it, and although she had said
nothing on the subject had not failed to notice that it was at New
Orleans he had been wounded. She knew enough of America to be aware that
he could not have gone there on his way to the districts where he might
be going to shoot game, and she wondered whether he had really gone down
there in order to find out something more about this woman.
It was very good of him if he had done so, and had put aside his own
plans for the purpose. She had lately been thinking of him with a good
deal of contrition. He had really taken a great deal of pains to try and
find this man, and that after she had been so angry with him he should
have pursued his inquiries in New York, had given her a sharp pang, and
had opened her eyes still more widely to the injustice with which she
had treated him. He had only spent a day over it; but still, it had
showed that her affairs still occupied his mind; but if he had really
given up his plans in order to follow these people down to New Orleans,
it was a real sacrifice, and one that she felt she had not deserved.
She did not admit to herself that this had anything whatever to do with
the delay in writing to Captain Armstrong, any more than she had
admitted that she had been prevented from writing at once from Chamounix
by any thought of Ned. She did acknowledge to herself that if Ned
Hampton was to die of this wound, which he never would have received had
he not gone down to New Orleans on her business, it would be a matter of
deep regret to her all her life. She shrank from speaking of him, and
the subject was never alluded to, unless her father or Mr. Singleton
spoke of it, which they always did when the latter came over, and she
then seldom joined in the conversation.
It was nearly a month later when Mr. Hawtrey one morning found among his
letters one from Danvers. Three or four letters had passed between them.
Mr. Levine had seen the jeweller, who, although admitting that the
evidence of the existence of another person who strongly resembled Miss
Hawtrey was remarkable, pointed out the absence of any proof whatever
that this person had even been in London at the time the diamonds were
taken away, and declaring that his own impressions remained unchanged.
At the same time, he was perfectly ready to let the matter remain open
for a year or more if necessary, and would, indeed, much rather do so
than accept any offer for part payment or even for entire payment from
Mr. Hawtrey.
It seemed highly probable that proof would by that time be obtained that
might clear the matter up entirely. If he had been the subject of an
extraordinarily clever fraud he was willing to submit to the entire
loss, and would, indeed, hail with satisfaction any evidence that would
convince him that he and his assistants had been deceived, and would
thus entirely clear away the unjust suspicion that he could not
otherwise but feel of a young lady who was the daughter of an old and
valued customer of the firm.
'The man speaks fairly enough, I must confess,' Danvers had written; 'he
is evidently absolutely convinced that he and his assistants cannot have
made a mistake as to the lady who visited them. He was, of course, much
struck at the depositions from New York, but remarked that people are
liable to be deceived by photographs, that it is one thing to see a
likeness, perhaps accidental, between a photograph and a living person,
but another altogether to mistake a living person you know well for
another. He is evidently greatly disturbed and troubled over the affair.
He said over and over again, "I would infinitely rather lose the money
and that Miss Hawtrey should be cleared; but, upon the other hand, I
cannot give way without evidence that will absolutely convince me that
my senses have been deceived in so extraordinary a manner."'
Mr. Hawtrey, then, expected no news of any importance from Danvers as to
his affairs, but it was possible the letter might contain some later
intelligence from New Orleans. It was nearly a month since they had
heard, and in a case like this no news is very far from being good news;
he opened it, therefore, with great reluctance, the more so that the
letter was lying at the top of the others, and he saw by the anxiety
with which Dorothy was watching him that she had at once recognised the
handwriting. As his eye fell upon the contents he uttered an exclamation
of thankfulness.
'It is from Ned himself,' Mr. Hawtrey said. 'Thank God for that!'
Dorothy repeated the exclamation of thankfulness in a low tone; her
hands moved unsteadily among the tea-things in front of her and then she
suddenly burst into tears.
Her father went round to her. 'There, there, my child,' he said, putting
his hand on her shoulder, 'do not distress yourself. I know that you
must have been as anxious as I have for the last month, as to the fate
of your old friend, though you have chosen to keep it to yourself. I
know that you must have felt it even more from having treated him
unjustly before he went away.'
'I shall be better directly, father; it is very silly.'
'It is not silly at all, Dorothy,' he said, as he went back to his seat;
'it is only natural that you should have been anxious when you knew a
friend was lying dangerously wounded, and that you should be upset now
that you hear of his recovery. I will glance through the letter and tell
you what he says.'
Danvers had written but a few lines with the letter.
'My dear Mr. Hawtrey,--I enclose Hampton's letter, which speaks for
itself. I think that his conjecture as to the author of the attempt on
his life is likely to be correct, and much as I should be glad to hear
that your daughter was finally and satisfactorily cleared from these
charges, I cannot but regret that Hampton should have undertaken so
dangerous a business as that upon which he has embarked. I think it
better to send you his letter, especially as we are not likely to hear
again from him for a long time.'
Ned Hampton's letter commenced with an expression of regret that his
friend should have been unduly alarmed about him by his boy having sent
off the letter with an addition of his own. 'Of course he meant well,
but it was a pity he did it. The wound was a severe one and no doubt I
had a very narrow escape of my life. I was rising from my seat as the
fellow struck at me from behind. That movement saved my life, for the
bowie knife--a formidable weapon in use here--went down to the handle
between my shoulder-bone and my ribs. That is, I take it, the plain
English of the surgeon's technical explanation. The boy did his best,
and sprang at the negro as I fell, and got a blow on the top of his head
with the handle of the knife. It stunned him and made a nasty scalp
wound, and would probably have killed him if it had not glanced off. The
scoundrel only got a few dollars, for I had fortunately emptied my
pockets of valuables before leaving the hotel.'
The writer then went on to state that he had discovered that the people
they were in search of 'had left their hotel suddenly half an hour after
I had landed. They had taken a passage up the river, and there seemed no
reason for their sudden departure. Putting that and the attack together
I can't help thinking that there must be some connection between them.
The attack alone might have been accounted for. It is a lawless sort of
place, and seating myself as I did on the deserted wharf, any ruffian
who noticed me might have considered me a likely victim, just as he
might have in any city of Europe; but the fact of these people leaving
so suddenly rather alters the case, and I cannot help thinking that
Truscott must have been among the crowd on the wharf when the steamer
went in, and that he recognised me.
'He may have noticed me with the Hawtreys at the Oaks, or I may have
been pointed out to him that day I saw him and followed him; he may have
been watching the house in Chester Square, and have seen me come out; he
may have noticed me walking with Mr. Hawtrey. If he did recognise me it
would account for his sudden departure; and as I find that he had an
intimate acquaintance in New Orleans, he may have left him to take steps
to effectually prevent further pursuit. They are bound, as I found out
by the outfit they bought here, for California; they go up the Missouri
to Omaha, and start from there in a waggon across the plains. What they
intend to do there I cannot, of course, say; the only clue I have is
that the police have discovered for me that the man they went about
with, whose name was Murdoch, was the keeper of a low saloon here,
frequented by sailors and a low class of gamblers. He sold his place
three or four days before he started, and has gone up with them. His
name is on the list of passengers, so it may be that they are going to
open a gambling place at one of the mining camps.
'I am going after them. I am still weak, and my shoulder--fortunately it
is the left--sometimes hurts me consumedly. It is, of course, still in
bandages, but it will take nearly three weeks to Omaha, for the steamer
stops at all sorts of wayside stations, so I shall be quite fit by the
time I get up there. I have bought three horses, one for my own riding
and two to draw a light cart with our provender. The boy will drive it.
I am not going to be beaten by this fellow, and sooner or later I will
bring him and his accomplice to book, and clear this matter up to the
bottom. Don't be uneasy about me; I have had a pretty sharp lesson, and
shall not be caught napping again.
'I shall begin to let all the hair grow on my face from the day I leave,
and shall have plenty of time to raise a big crop before I meet them
again; and as he can have had but a casual look at me there can be no
chance of his recognising me, got up in a regular miner's outfit, which
I understand to be a dirty red shirt, rough trousers, and high boots. I
have written to the Horse Guards for extension of leave, and, as I told
you in my last, shall, if I am pushed for time in the end, make my way
across the Pacific to India without returning. Of one thing I am
determined. Dorothy Hawtrey shall be completely cleared, even if it
takes so long that I have to send my papers in and sell out.
'Of course, when you write, you will merely say that I have gone West,
and let it be supposed that I am after buffalo. I will write whenever I
get a chance. You might send me a line two or three months after you get
this, directed to me, Post Office, Sacramento, telling me how things are
going on, and how the Hawtreys are. Say anything you like from me. I do
hope they have not heard about my having been hurt.'
In a postscript was added: 'If anyone has stepped into Halliburn's
shoes, don't fail to mention it. It will hurt, of course, but I knew my
chances were at an end from the moment she found out that I had doubted
her.'
'It is a long letter, father,' Dorothy said, as he laid it down beside
him and turned to his neglected breakfast.
'Yes, it is rather a long letter,' he said absently.
'Was he badly hurt?' she asked, seeing that he did not seem as if he was
going to say more.
'Hurt?' he repeated, as if he had almost forgotten the circumstance, and
then, rousing himself, went on: 'Yes, he had a very narrow escape of his
life. It seems a man crept up behind him as he was sitting on the wharf,
with a bowie, which is a big clasp knife with a blade which fastens by a
spring. Fortunately he heard the fellow just in time, and was in the act
of rising when he struck him, and the blade fell just behind the
shoulder and penetrated its full depth between the shoulder-blade and
the ribs. He says he is getting round again nicely; his shoulder is
still bandaged, and hurts him sharply at times, but he is going up the
river in a steamboat, and will be two or three weeks on board, and he
expects to be quite well by the time he lands; then he will be at the
edge of what they call the plains.'
Dorothy was silent for some time.
'Was he robbed, father?'
'Only a few dollars; he says he had fortunately emptied his pockets
before leaving the hotel.'
'I suppose he is going to hunt out on the plains?'
'Yes, he is going to hunt, Dorothy.'
'What will he hunt, father?'
'I believe there are all sorts of game, dear--buffaloes and deer, and so
on.'
'But there are Indians too, father, are there not? I have read about
emigrant trains being attacked.'
'Yes, I suppose there are Indians,' Mr. Hawtrey replied vaguely.
'Can't I read the letter, father?' she asked timidly, after another long
pause.
'No, I don't think so, my dear. No, it was written to Mr. Danvers, and
it was to some extent a breach of confidence his forwarding it to me,
but I suppose he thought I ought to see it.'
Dorothy was silent again until her father had finished his breakfast.
'Don't you think I ought to see it too, father?' she repeated. 'Why
shouldn't I? If there is anything about me in it, I think I have almost
a right to read it. Why should I be kept in the dark? I don't see what
there can be about me, but if there is, wouldn't it be fair that I
should know it?'
'That is what I have been puzzling myself about, Dorothy, ever since I
opened it. I think, myself, you have a right to know. The more so that
you have been so hard and unjust on the poor fellow--but I promised him
not to say anything about it.'
'But you did not promise him not to show me the letter,' Dorothy said
quickly, with the usual feminine perspicacity in discovering a way out
of a difficulty short of telling an absolute untruth.
Mr. Hawtrey could not help smiling, though he was feeling deeply anxious
and puzzled over what he had best do.
'That is a sophistry I did not think you would be guilty of, Dorothy;
though it had already occurred to me. At the time I made the promise I
thought his request was not fair to you and was unwise, but the reason
he gave was that, having failed here, he did not wish that another
failure should be known; and, moreover, he did not wish to raise false
hopes when in all probability nothing might come of it. I have been
grievously tempted several times to break my promise; I know that
Singleton, who also knew, has been on the edge of doing so more than
once, especially that day the letter came saying that he was wounded. I
will think it over, child. No, I don't see that any good can come of
thinking about it. I feel that, as you say, you have a right to know,
and as Ned Hampton says it is possible he will go back to India without
returning to England, it will be a long time before he can reproach me
with a breach of faith. There is the letter, child. You will find me in
one of the greenhouses if you want me.'
But as Dorothy did not come out in an hour, Mr. Hawtrey went back to the
house and found her, as he expected, in the little room she called her
own. She was sitting on a low chair with the letter on her knees; her
eyes were red with crying.
'Was I right to show you the letter, child?' he asked, as he sat down
beside her.
'Of course you were right, father. I ought to have known it all along,'
she said, reproachfully. 'It was right that I should be punished--for I
was hard and unjust--but not to be punished so heavily as this. Did he
go out from the first only on my affairs, and not to hunt or shoot, as I
supposed?'
'He went out only for that purpose, Dorothy. He told me before he
started that if he found they had gone out there, he would follow,
however long it might take. You must remember that you said yourself
that you wished him not to interfere farther in your affairs, and he was
anxious, therefore, for that and the other reason I gave you, that you
should suppose that he had gone out simply for his own amusement. As I
saw no more reason why they should have gone to the United States than
on to the Continent, although he thought they had, there was no
particular reason why I should not give him the promise he asked; and it
was not until the letter came at Chamounix, saying that he had got on
their traces, that I had any thought of breaking the promise, although
Singleton, who said he had never actually promised, wanted very much to
tell you that Ned had not, as you supposed, gone away for amusement, but
to unravel that business.'
'It was wrong,' she said decidedly. 'I know it was chiefly my own fault.
I might have been vexed at first, but I ought to have known. I ought, at
least, to have been able to write to him to tell him that I would not
have him running into danger on my account.'
'Your letter would not have reached him had you done so, my dear. There
was no saying where to write to him, and he would have left New York
before your letter arrived; indeed, he only stayed there three days, as
he went down by the first steamer to New Orleans.'
'It would have been a comfort for me to have written, even if he had
never got it,' she said. 'Now, he may never hear.'
'We must not look at it in that light, Dorothy,' Mr. Hawtrey said, with
an attempt at cheerfulness. 'Ned Hampton has got his head screwed on in
the right way, and, as he says, he won't be taken by surprise again. He
has been close on these people's heels twice, and I have strong faith
that the third time he will be more successful. What he is to do in that
case, or how he is to get the truth out of them, is more than I can
imagine, and I don't suppose he has given that any thought at present.
He must, of course, be guided by circumstances. It may not be so
difficult as it seems to us here. Certainly there is no shadow of a
chance of his getting them arrested in that wild country, but, as they
will know that as well as he does, it might prove all the easier for him
to get them to write and sign a confession of their share in the
business. There, I hear wheels on the gravel outside; no doubt it is
Singleton--he has been over every morning for the last ten days to see
if we have news. This will gladden his heart, for he is as anxious about
Ned as if he had been his son.'
He was about to take up the letter when Dorothy laid her hand on it.
'Tell him the news, father, please; I want to keep the letter all to
myself.'
Mr. Hawtrey went out to meet his friend, who was delighted to hear of
Ned Hampton's recovery, but fumed and grumbled terribly when he heard of
his plans.
'Upon my word, Hawtrey, I hardly know which is the most perverse,
Dorothy or Ned Hampton; they are enough to tire the patience of a saint.
Where is the letter?'
'I have given it to Dorothy, and she declines to give it up even for
your reading.'
'So that is it. Then he has let the cat out of the bag at last, Hawtrey;
that is a comfort anyhow. And how did she take it?'
'She was very much upset--very much; and she says she ought to have
known it before.'
'Of course she ought--that is what I said all along; and she would have
known if we hadn't been two old fools. Well, give me the contents of the
letter as well as you can remember them.'
Mr. Hawtrey repeated the substance of the letter.
'Well, well, we must hope for the best, Hawtrey. He is clear-headed
enough, and he will be sharply on his guard when he overtakes them; and
he will look so different a figure in a rough dress after that long
journey I can hardly think the fellow is likely to recognise him again.'
'Will you come in, Singleton?'
'Not on any account. We had best let Miss Dorothy think the matter out
by herself. I fancy things will work out as I wish them yet.'
Dorothy sat for a long time without moving; then she drew a small
writing-table up in front of her, and, taking a sheet of note-paper,
began to write after a moment's hesitation.
'My dear Captain Armstrong,--When I saw you last I told you that I would
let you know should the strange mystery of which I was the victim ever
be cleared up. It is not yet entirely cleared up, but it is so to a
considerable extent, as the woman who personated me has been traced to
America, where she went a week after the robbery, and my portrait has
been recognised as her likeness by a number of persons at the hotel
where she stopped. This encourages us to hope that some day the whole
matter will be completely cleared up. I received this news on the day
after you left Chamounix, but I did not write to you before because I
wanted to think over what you said to me in quiet.
'I have done so, and I am sorry, very sorry, Captain Armstrong, to say
that I am certain my feelings towards you are not, and never will be,
such as you desire. I like you, as I told you when you first asked me
the question, very, very much, but I do not love you as you should be
loved by a wife. I hope we shall always be good friends, and I wish you,
with all my heart, the happiness you deserve, though I cannot be to you
what you wish. I do not hesitate to sign myself your affectionate
friend, Dorothy Hawtrey.'
The note was written without pause or hesitation. It had been thought
out before it was begun. It was strange, even to herself, how easily it
had come to her, after having had it so much on her mind for the last
month. She wondered now how she could have hesitated so long; how she
could ever have doubted as to what she would say to him.
'I thank God I did not write before,' she murmured, as she directed the
letter. 'I might have ruined my life and his, for, once done, I never
could have drawn back again.'