“I have deserved it all; it is every word of it true; he could not have written otherwise.”  That was all that Wenna would say between her sobs.

“Well,” retorted Mabyn, “after all, I am glad he was angry.  I did not think he had so much spirit.  And if this is his opinion of you, I don’t think it is worth heeding, only I hope he’ll keep to it.  Yes, I do.  I hope he’ll continue to think you everything that is wicked, and remain out in Jamaica.  Wenna, you must not lie and cry like that.  Come, get up, and look at the strawberries that Mr. Trewhella has sent you.”

“Please, Mabyn, leave me alone, there’s a good girl.”

“I shall be up again in a few minutes, then:  I want you to drive me over to St. Gwennis.  Wenna, I must go over to St. Gwennis before lunch; and father won’t let me have anybody to drive.  Do you hear, Wenna?”

Then she went out and down into the kitchen, where she bothered Jennifer for a few minutes until she had got an iron heated at the fire.  With this implement she carefully smoothed out the crumpled letter, and then she as carefully folded it, took it up stairs, and put it safely away in her own desk.  She had just time to write a few lines: 

“DEAR MR. TRELYON:  Do you know what news I have got to tell you?  Can you guess?  The engagement between Mr. Roscorla and Wenna is broken off; and I have got in my possession the letter in which he sets her free.  If you knew how glad I am!  I should like to cry ‘Hurrah! hurrah!’ all through the streets of Eglosilyan; and I think every one else would do the same if only they knew.  Of course she is very much grieved, for he has been most insulting.  I cannot tell you the things he has said:  you would kill him if you heard them.  But she will come round very soon, I know:  and then she will have her freedom again, and no more emerald rings, and letters all filled with arguments.  Would you like to see her, Mr. Trelyon?  But don’t come yet—­not for a long time:  she would only get angry and obstinate.  I’ll tell you when to come; and in the mean time, you know, she is still wearing your ring, so that you need not be afraid.  How glad I shall be to see you again!  Yours most faithfully,

    “MABYN ROSEWARNE.”

She went down stairs quickly and put this letter in the letter-box.  There was an air of triumph on her face.  She had worked for this result—­aided by the mysterious powers of Fate, whom she had conjured to serve her—­and now the welcome end of her labors had arrived.  She bade the hostler get out the dog-cart, as if she were the queen of Sheba going to visit Solomon.  She went marching up to her sister’s room, announcing her approach with a more than ordinarily accurate rendering of “Oh, the men of merry, merry England!” so that a stranger might have fancied that he heard the very voice of Harry Trelyon, with all its unmelodious vigor, ringing along the passage.

CHAPTER XXXII.