Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 6).djvu/187

page—where the words refused to be written—and longed to sob out her loneliness, her grief and her despair, her great wrong, for surely Tom had wronged her.

Mrs. Crawley's knock upon the door startled her, and she tried to smooth away the signs of her trouble before she bade her landlady enter.

"I hope I am not disturbing you, Mrs. Poyntz. I fear you were going to write?"

"I cannot write a word; pray come in," said Elsa. She pushed aside her papers impatiently and drew forward an easy chair for her visitor.

"You seem, as a rule, to find your work so easy," said Mrs. Crawley presently, with something of a sigh. "I used to try at one time, but I never had anything accepted."

"Perhaps you did not persevere long enough."

"Well, the last thing I sent was a poem. All my troubles came upon me not long after, and since that I have had no time to think about writing. Something very strange happened about that poem too."

"What was that?" asked Elsa, indifferently.

"A matter in which I have always felt guilty, although it was not altogether my fault, but I will show you the paper—it is in my desk. I can lay my hand on it easily."

Elsa sat on, listless and idle, while Mrs. Crawley was gone in search of the paper. She expected to be asked to read some verses; it would not have occurred to her that Mrs. Crawley could write poetry.

That lady came back shortly, an old mahogany desk in her hand.

"I thought I would bring the desk," she explained. "There are two or three little things here I might ask your advice about; but this is the paper I was referring to, it was inclosed with my returned poem."

She had been searching among the bundles of letters while she spoke; now she handed to Elsa an open envelope.

"At last she stood up."

Mrs. Vane took it carelessly; then she gave a little cry, for she saw that it had come from the London Month. Within was a short MS. poem and a folded sheet. She opened the latter hastily. It bore the date February — 188—, in Tom Vane's hand, and was closely written on three sides. There was no superscription, but after the first word she read on eagerly. At last she stood up, holding the back of her chair, and looking, almost fiercely, at Mrs. Crawley.

"You—you have kept this letter for five years—after reading it—and knowing it was not yours."

Mrs. Crawley glanced up quickly.

"I am not so much to blame as you think. We were living in ——— Street then, at our old home. When that letter came I was lying very ill; my husband just glanced at it, and seeing one of my MSS. returned, threw it aside. He always laughed at my trying to write. Afterwards, my little baby died. It was months before I even saw the letter, not till the crash came and everything was being turned out for the sale, then I