On the following day I received a letter from Miss Cameron. They were
very comfortable, the place was beautiful, the air delightful, her
mother seemed to be better already. She signed herself Ellen Cameron,
and hereafter I thought of her only as Ellen. It was not such a letter
as an ordinary needlewoman would have written. The writing was that of
a lady, and the wording appropriate and well-chosen. The signs of fair
culture in it were very pleasing to me.
I did not reply to it immediately, thinking it unbecoming to show
haste. In a day or two I wrote, expressing satisfaction at the report,
and bidding her take advantage of every hour of fine weather. Acting
upon the doctor's suggestion, I dispatched a hamper of fruit, wine,
and jelly, and continued to do so at regular intervals. Ellen's thanks
for these gifts were extravagant, and rather humiliated me. If thanks
were due to either of us, it was she who should have been the
recipient.
The task I had entrusted to my solicitor was one of extreme
difficulty, but fortunately for me he was a man of inflexible
resolution and perfect self-possession, qualities which made him more
than a match for Maxwell, who undertook the management of Barbara's
affairs. Every resistance was made to the carrying out of my plans,
and a solicitor of doubtful reputation was employed by Maxwell to
threaten and bluster. My own solicitor made light of this.
"It will do them no good to go to law," he said to me. "The only
satisfaction they would get would be the bringing up of your name
before the public. The fact of their employing a lawyer of such a
character shows that they are aware of the weakness of their case. In
no event would they benefit to a greater extent than you propose."
It was a wearisome and distressing business, and it is needless to say
that I took no pleasure in it. I was animated by no sense of triumph,
and was only upheld by my stern determination not to be turned from my
purpose. Finally, Maxwell adopted other tactics. "The income you offer
my poor sister," he wrote, "is utterly inadequate for her support.
Through your misconduct she is now in such a deplorable state of
health that the utmost care is needed. Make it five hundred pounds a
year, and a public exposure of your brutality will be avoided. Within
a few days of your marriage Barbara discovered that you had a
mistress, and as a man of the world I know that there has been all
through another woman in the case. It will be worth your while to make
it five hundred pounds. I am not at the end of my resources, and if
you refuse to act in a sensible way I will make it warm for you. You
shall not have a moment's peace."
Finally, after the lapse of several weeks, the distressing affair was
brought to a conclusion. The house was sold, and Barbara removed from
it, taking with her the whole of the furniture, to which, for the sake
of peace, I offered no objection. The worry and anxiety had affected
my health. Living alone, with no friend to cheer me, I should have
felt myself a complete outcast from the world had in not been for the
regular correspondence I kept up with Ellen. Her letters were my only
comfort, and I may truly say that they preserved the balance of my
mind. Confident as I was in the justice of my cause it may have been
that, but for the consolation I drew from them, I should have again
given way to despair. The natural reserve which distinguished her
letters when she first began to write to me had melted away, and she
wrote now as to a friend of long standing.
It was at this period that I received a letter from her mother. She
said that her daughter did not know she was communicating with me, and
that her letter was posted by a servant in the farmhouse. There was
something on her mind which she wished to impart to me, and she had
also an earnest desire to see the friend to whom they were so deeply
indebted. If my engagements in London would permit of it she would
esteem it an honor to shake hands with their dearest friend and
confide to him a secret which was oppressing her.
The request came opportunely. The good doctor had spoken of my changed
appearance, and had advised me to go into the country for a rest.
"Would Swanage suit me?" I asked.
"I prescribe Swanage," he replied, smiling.
He knew me only as John Fletcher, and had no suspicion that I was a
married man.