Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 6).djvu/188

found it lying in the study among a heap of bills. I thought I would write then, but I was in great trouble and perplexity; somehow I put it off and forgot. It was six months old, and I thought if it had been of consequence inquiries would have been made; then, later, it seemed absurd to rake up the matter. I did not know how to account for the delay. Of course, I was to blame, but I never read more than the first few lines. It suddenly came into my mind to-night, and I thought there could be no harm in showing it to you after all this time. I had almost forgotten it."

Elsa had listened to this explanation in perfect stillness. When Mrs. Crawley said that she had not fully read the letter, her face showed signs of relief. She leaned over a little, her outspread hand pressed heavily upon the table, palm downwards.

"It was a slight want of honour," she said, quietly, "that was all. I have noticed that we women are apt to fail in that way towards each other; but there were great excuses. Forgive me, if I speak harshly. This letter, it is mine. It was meant for me five years ago."

"Mrs. Crawley sprang up, scattering her balls of yarn."

Mrs. Crawley sprang up—scattering her balls of yarn, and dropping her knitting.

"For you—oh! Mrs. Poyntz. May God forgive me—can you? Ever?"

Elsa did not seem to see the outstretched hands.

"If you don't mind," she said, measuring her tones, "will you leave me alone for a little while—quite alone."

There was no sign of agitation save the pitiful gather in the brows, the slightest tremor in the last words. Mrs. Crawley stooped and picked up her knitting. She had seen enough of the letter to know what what its loss might mean; perhaps even the key to the solitary life that had sometimes perplexed her. Her eyes were full of tears when she had recovered her balls of yarn.

Elsa never moved until the door closed, leaving her to the blessed solitude; then she sank down upon her knees, the sobs that had been so far away all these years shaking her, as she wept out her grief upon the friend's heart that she had found—Tom's letter.

If, as has been said, the essence of tragedy is the nearness of joy, then had the fates of Tom Vane and his wife been tragic for the last five years, with a tragedy hinging upon an incident that might have been burlesque. The words of the letter that all this time had lain in Mrs. Crawley's old mahogany desk—and but for the curious chain of circumstances called chance, might so have lain until it crumbled into dust, and the sorrows that it cancelled were for ever dead—were these:—

"I thank God, my darling, for your sweet words, and for the renewal of your confidence. I have such a short time to write, to say all that must be said. You reproach yourself too much, the burden of what you have suffered lies heavily upon me. My love has never faltered or lessened for one moment—bear this in mind in what I have yet to say—also that from my tried middle age I can swear that it never will falter or slacken until death. But I have watched you and felt the change in you. God knows I hold our vows sacred, but I have a horrible fear lest the impulse of the moment should have wrung from you the truth—and the renewal of your tenderness been dictated only by a sense of duty. I will put my love for you to the test—the hardest. If your heart allows that this is so—if you feel that