Blind Love

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.