“Buntingford—­going to London?” said Cynthia in amazement.

Miss Alcott started.  She remembered suddenly that her brother had told her that no mention was to be made, for the present, of the visit to London.  In her fatigue and suppressed excitement she had forgotten.  She could only retrieve her indiscretion—­since white lies were not practised at the Rectory—­by a hurried change of subject and by reminding her brother it was time for them to go back to the house.  They accordingly disappeared.

“What is Buntingford going to London for?” said Georgina as they neared their own door.

Cynthia could not imagine—­especially when the state of the Rectory patient was considered.  “If she is as bad as the Alcotts say, they will probably want to-morrow to get a deposition from her of some kind,” remarked Georgina, facing the facts as usual.  Cynthia acquiesced.  But she was not thinking of the unhappy stranger who lay, probably dying, under the Alcotts’ roof.  She was suffering from a fresh personal stab.  For, clearly, Geoffrey French had not told all there was to be known; there was some further mystery.  And even the Alcotts knew more than she.  Affection and pride were both wounded anew.

But with the morning came consolation.  Her maid, when she called her, brought in the letters as usual.  Among them, one in a large familiar hand.  She opened it eagerly, and it ran:—­

“Saturday night, 11 p.m.

“MY DEAR CYNTHIA:—­I was so sorry to find when I went to the drawing-room just now that you had gone home.  I wanted if possible to walk part of the way with you, and to tell you a few things myself.  For you are one of my oldest friends, and I greatly value your sympathy and counsel.  But the confusion and bewilderment of the last few hours have been such—­you will understand!

“To-morrow we shall hardly meet—­for I am going to London on a strange errand!  Anna—­the woman that was my wife—­tells me that six months after she left me, a son was born to me, whose existence she has till now concealed from me.  I have no reason to doubt her word, but of course for everybody’s sake I must verify her statement as far as I can.  My son—­a lad of fifteen—­is now in London, and so is the French bonne—­Zelie Ronchicourt—­who originally lived with us in Paris, and was with Anna at the time of her confinement.  You will feel for me when you know that he is apparently deaf and dumb.  At any rate he has never spoken, and the brain makes no response.  Anna speaks of an injury at birth.  There might possibly be an operation.  But of all this I shall know more presently.  The boy, of course, is mine henceforth—­whatever happens.

“With what mingled feelings I set out to-morrow, you can imagine.  I feel no bitterness towards the unhappy soul who has come back so suddenly into my life.  Except so far as the boy is concerned—­(that I feel cruelly!)—­I have not much right—­For I was not blameless towards her in the old days.  She had reasons—­though not of the ordinary kind—­for the frantic jealousy which carried her away from me.  I shall do all I can for her; but if she gets through this illness, there will be a divorce in proper form.