He crushed the paper between his hands.  He cried aloud:  “Into my hands!  Into my hands thou hast delivered him!”

He opened the paper and read again, his hand shaking, and now a most terrible trembling upon him.

     Dear Mr. Sabre,

I wanted you to go to Brighton so I could be alone to do what I am just going to do.  I see now it is all impossible, and I ought to have seen it before, but I was so very fond of my little baby and I never dreamt it would be like this.  But you see they won’t let me keep my little baby and now I have made things too terrible for you.  So I see the only thing to do is to take myself out of it all and take my little baby with me.  Soon I shall explain things to God and then I think it will be quite all right.  Dear Mr. Sabre, when I explain things to God, I shall tell him how wonderful you have been to me.  My heart is filled with gratitude to you.  I cannot express it; but I shall tell God when I explain everything to him; and my one hope is that after I have been punished I shall be allowed to meet you again, and thank you—­there, where everything will be understood.

He turned over.

I feel I ought to tell you now, before I leave this world, what I never was able to tell you or any one.  The father of my little baby was Harold Twyning who used to be in your office.  We had been secretly engaged a very, very long time and then he was in an officers’ training camp at Bournemouth where I was, and I don’t think I quite understood.  We were going to be married and then he had to go suddenly, and then he was afraid to tell his father and then this happened and he was more afraid.  So that was how it all was.  I do want you, please, to tell Harold that I quite I forgive him, only I can’t quite write to him.  And dear Mr. Sabre, I do trust you to be with Harold what you have always been with me and with everybody—­gentle, and understanding things.  And I shall tell the Perches, too, about you, and Mr. Fargus.  Good-by and may God bless and reward you for ever and ever,

     Effie.

II

He shouted again, “Ha!” He cried again, “Into my hands!  Into my hands!”

He abandoned himself to a rather horrible ecstasy of hate and passion.  His face became rather horrible to see.  His face became purple and black and knotted, and the veins on his forehead black.  He cried aloud, “Harold!  Harold!  Twyning!  Twyning!” He rather horribly mimicked Twyning.  “Harold’s such a good boy!  Harold’s such a good, Christian, model boy!  Harold’s never said a bad word or had a bad thought.  Harold’s such a good boy.”  He cried out:  “Harold’s such a blackguard!  Harold’s such a blackguard!  A blackguard and the son of a vile, infamous, lying, perjured blackguard.”

His passion and his hate surmounted his voice.  He choked.  He picked up his stick and went with frantic striding hops to the door.  He cried aloud, gritting his teeth upon it, “I’ll cram the letter down his throat.  I’ll cram the letter down his throat.  I’ll take him by the neck.  I’ll bash him across the face.  And I’ll cram the letter down his throat.”