I must beg you to address the telegram to
'The Reverend Julian Gray, Mablethorpe House, Kensington.'
He is here, and he will show it to me.
No words of mine can describe what I owe to him.
He has never despaired of me—he has saved me from myself.
God bless and reward the kindest, truest, best man I have ever known!
"I have no more to say, except to ask you to excuse this long letter, and to believe me your grateful servant, ——."
She signed and inclosed the letter, and wrote the address.
Then, for the first time, an obstacle which she ought to have seen before showed itself, standing straight in her way.
There was no time to forward her letter in the ordinary manner by post.
It must be taken to its destination by a private messenger.
Lady Janet's servants had hitherto been, one and all, at her disposal.
Could she presume to employ them on her own affairs, when she might be dismissed from the house, a disgraced woman, in half an hour's time?
Of the two alternatives it seemed better to take her chance, and present herself at the Refuge without asking leave first.
While she was still considering the question she was startled by a knock at her door.
On opening it she admitted Lady Janet's maid, with a morsel of folded note-paper in her hand.
"From my lady, miss," said the woman, giving her the note. "There is no answer."
Mercy stopped her as she was about to leave the room.
The appearance of the maid suggested an inquiry to her.
She asked if any of the servants were likely to be going into town that afternoon.
"Yes, miss.
One of the grooms is going on horseback, with a message to her ladyship's coach-maker."
The Refuge was close by the coach-maker's place of business.
Under the circumstances, Mercy was emboldened to make use of the man.
It was a pardonable liberty to employ his services now.
"Will you kindly give the groom that letter for me?" she said.
"It will not take him out of his way.
He has only to deliver it—nothing more."
The woman willingly complied with the request.
Left once more by herself, Mercy looked at the little note which had been placed in her hands. It was the first time that her benefactress had employed this formal method of communicating with her when they were both in the house.
What did such a departure from established habits mean?
Had she received her notice of dismissal?
Had Lady Janet's quick intelligence found its way already to a suspicion of the truth?
Mercy's nerves were unstrung.
She trembled pitiably as she opened the folded note.
It began without a form of address, and it ended without a signature.
Thus it ran:
"I must request you to delay for a little while the explanation which you have promised me.
At my age, painful surprises are very trying things.
I must have time to compose myself, before I can hear what you have to say.
You shall not be kept waiting longer than I can help.
In the meanwhile everything will go on as usual.
My nephew Julian, and Horace Holmcroft, and the lady whom I found in the dining-room, will, by my desire, remain in the house until I am able to meet them, and to meet you, again."
There the note ended.
To what conclusion did it point?
Had Lady Janet really guessed the truth? or had she only surmised that her adopted daughter was connected in some discreditable manner with the mystery of
"Mercy Merrick"?
The line in which she referred to the intruder in the dining-room as "the lady" showed very remarkably that her opinions had undergone a change in that quarter.
But was the phrase enough of itself to justify the inference that she had actually anticipated the nature of Mercy's confession?
It was not easy to decide that doubt at the moment—and it proved to be equally difficult to throw any light on it at an aftertime.