Part 97 (1/2)

Raby went for the letters, and laid them before him. He took up the fatal letter. ”Why, this is not written by Mrs. Little. I know her neat Italian hand too well. See how the letters slant and straggle.”

”Oh! but you must allow for the writer's agitation.”

”Why should I allow for it? YOU DIDN'T. Who can look at this scrawl, and not see that the poor heart-broken creature was not herself when she wrote it? This is not a letter, it is a mere scream of agony. Put yourself in her place. Imagine yourself a woman--a creature in whom the feelings overpower the judgment. Consider the shock, the wound, the frenzy; and, besides, she had no idea that you left this house to get her husband the money from your own funds.”

”She never shall know it either.”

”She does know it. I have told her. And, poor thing, she thinks she was the only one to blame. She seeks your forgiveness. She pines for it.

This is the true cause of her illness; and I believe, if you could forgive her and love her, it might yet save her life.”

”Then tell her I blame myself as much as her. Tell her my house, my arms, and my heart are open to her. Amboyne, you are a true friend, and a worthy man. G.o.d bless you. How shall we get her here, poor soul? Will you go for her, or shall I?”

”Let me sleep on that,” said Dr. Amboyne.

In the course of the evening, Dr. Amboyne told Raby all the reports about Jael Dence and Henry Little.

”What does that matter now?” said Raby, with a sigh.

Whenever a servant came into the room, Amboyne asked him if Jael had arrived.

Raby shared his curiosity, but not his anxiety. ”The girl knows her friends,” said he. ”She will have her cry out, you may depend; but after that she will find her way here, and, when she has got over it a little, I shall be sure to learn from her whether he was her lover, and where he was when the place was blown up. A Dence never lies to a Raby.”

But when nine o'clock struck, and there were no tidings of her, Raby began to share the doctor's uneasiness, and also to be rather angry and impatient.

”Confound the girl!” said he. ”Her grandfathers have stood by mine, in their danger and trouble, for two hundred years; and now, in her trouble, she slinks away from me.”

”Put yourself in her place,” said Amboyne. ”Ten to one she thinks you are offended about her and Henry. She is afraid to come near you.”

”What, when I ask her?”

”Through your stupid lazy servants, who, to save themselves trouble, have very likely told somebody else to tell her; and we know what comes of that process. Ten to one the invitation has either missed her altogether, or come to her divested of all that is kind and soothing.

And remember, she is not a man. She is a poor girl, full of shame and apprehension, and needs a gentle encouraging hand to draw her here. Do, for once, put yourself in a woman's place--you were born of a woman.”

”You are right,” said Raby. ”I will send down a carriage for her, with a line in my own hand.”

He did so.

At eleven the servant came back with the news that Jael Dence was not at home. She had been seen wandering about the country, and was believed to be wrong in her head. George, the blacksmith, and others, were gone up to the old church after her.

”Turn out with torches, every man Jack of you, and find her,” said Raby.

As for Raby and Amboyne, they sat by the fireside and conversed together--princ.i.p.ally about poor Mrs. Little; but the conversation was languid.

A few minutes after midnight a terrible scream was heard. It was uttered out of doors, yet it seemed to penetrate the very room where Raby and Amboyne were seated. Both men started to their feet. The scream was not repeated. They looked at each other.

”It was in my garden,” said Raby; and, with some little difficulty, he opened the window and ran out, followed by Amboyne.

They looked, but could see nothing.

But, with that death-shriek ringing in their ears, they wasted no time.