Part 38 (2/2)

”Axin' pardon, but you'll let 'un down aisy, won't 'ee? He don't bear no malice, tho' he've a-suffered a brave bit. Cure 'un, that's what I say--cure 'un: this bein', o' cou'se, atween you an' me.

An' look 'ee here,” he continued, with a slow nod; ”s'posin' the party lets on as he's a-falled in love wi' another party, I reckon you won't be the party to hinder et. Mind, I bain't sayin' you cou'd, but you won't try, will 'ee? That's atween you an' me, o'

cou'se.”

The man winked solemnly, and turned down the path. Before she recovered of her astonishment he had paused again at the gate, and was looking back.

”That's understood,” he nodded; ”atween you an' me an' the gate-post, o' cou'se.”

With that he had disappeared.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, if bewildered at this, was yet more astonished at the contents of the letter.

”Fogo?” she repeated, with a glance at the signature--”Fogo?

Won't that be the name of the woman-hater up at Kit's House, me dear?”

”Certainly,” answered the Honourable Frederic.

”Then I'll trouble yez to listen to this.”

She read as follows:--

”My Dear Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, When last you left me I prayed that we might never meet again.

But time is stronger than I fancied, and here I am writing to you. Fate must have been in her most ironical mood to bring us so near in this corner of the world. I thought you were in another continent; but if you will let me accept the chance which brings us together, and call upon you as an old friend, I shall really be grateful: for there will be much to talk about, even if we avoid, as I promise to do, all that is painful; and I am very lonely. I have seen your husband, and hope you are very happy.--Believe me, very sincerely yours, Philip Fogo.”

”What does it mean?” asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys helplessly.

”It means, Nellie, that we have just time enough, and none to spare; in other words, that 'Goodwyn-Sandys' has come near to being a confoundedly fatal--”

”Then he must have known--”

”Known! My treasure, where are your wits? Beautiful namesake-- jilted lover--'hence, perjured woman'--bleeding heart--years pa.s.s-- marry another--finger of fate--Good Lord!” wound up the Honourable Frederic. ”I met the fellow one day, and couldn't understand why he stared so--gave me the creeps--see it all now.”

He lay back in his chair and whistled.

There was a tap at the drawing-room door, and the b.u.t.toned youth announced that Mrs. Buzza was without, and earnestly begged an interview with Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. The Honourable Frederic obligingly retired to smoke, and the visitor was shown in.

Her appearance was extraordinary. Her portly figure shook; her eyes were red; her bonnet, rakishly poised over the left eye, had dragged askew the ”front” under it, as though its wearer had parted her hair on one side in a distracted moment. A sob rent her bosom as she entered.

”My poor soul!” murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, ”you are in trouble.”

Mrs. Buzza tried to speak, but dropped into a chair and nodded instead.

”What _is_ the matter?”

”It's--it's _him_.”

”The Admiral?”

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