No other conclusion was possible. The doctor had deceived her wilfully.
To get her out of the way he sent her to Berne. He would have sent her
to Jericho if her purse had been long enough to pay the fare. She was
tricked.
She counted her money. There was exactly twenty-eight shillings and
tenpence in her purse.
She went back to the cheapest (and dirtiest) of the pensions she had
visited. She stated her case--she had missed milady her mistress--she
must stay until she should receive orders to go on, and money--would
they take her in until one or the other arrived? Certainly. They would
take her in, at five francs a day, payable every morning in advance.
She made a little calculation--she had twenty-eight and tenpence;
exactly thirty-five francs--enough for seven days. If she wrote to Mrs.
Vimpany at once she could get an answer in five days.
She accepted the offer, paid her five shillings, was shown into a room,
and was informed that the dinner was served at six o'clock.
Very good. Here she could rest, at any rate, and think what was to be
done. And first she wrote two letters--one to Mrs. Vimpany and one to
Mr. Mountjoy.
In both of these letters she told exactly what she had found: neither
Lord Harry nor his wife at the cottage, the place vacated, and the
doctor on the point of going away. In both letters she told how she had
been sent all the way into Switzerland on a fool's errand, and now
found herself planted there without the means of getting home. In the
letter to Mrs. Vimpany she added the remarkable detail that the man
whom she had seen on the Thursday morning apparently dead, whose actual
poisoning she thought she had witnessed, was reported on the Saturday
to have walked out of the cottage, carrying his things, if he had any,
and proposing to make his way to London in order to find out his old
nurse. "Make what you can out of that," she said. "For my own part, I
understand nothing."
In the letter which she wrote to Mr. Mountjoy she added a petition that
he would send her money to bring her home. This, she said, her mistress
she knew would willingly defray.
She posted these letters on Tuesday, and waited for the answers.
Mrs. Vimpany wrote back by return post.
"My dear Fanny," she said, "I have read your letter with the greatest
interest. I am not only afraid that some villainy is afloat, but I am
perfectly sure of it. One can only hope and pray that her ladyship may
be kept out of its influence. You will be pleased to hear that Mr.
Mountjoy is better. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to stand
the shock of violent emotion, I put Lady Harry's letter into his hands.
It was well that I had kept it from him, for he fell into such a
violence of grief and indignation that I thought he would have had a
serious relapse. 'Can any woman,' he cried, 'be justified in going back
to an utterly unworthy husband until he has proved a complete change?
What if she had received a thousand letters of penitence? Penitence
should be shown by acts, not words: she should have waited.' He wrote
her a letter, which he showed me. 'Is there,' he asked, 'anything in
the letter which could justly offend her?' I could find nothing. He
told her, but I fear too late, that she risks degradation--perhaps
worse, if there is anything worse--if she persists in returning to her
unworthy husband. If she refuses to be guided by his advice, on the
last occasion on which he would presume to offer any device, he begged
that she would not answer. Let her silence say--No. That was the
substance of his letter. Up to the present moment no answer has been
received from Lady Harry. Nor has he received so much as an
acknowledgment of the letter. What can be understood by this silence?
Clearly, refusal.