CHAPTER III.

MAGDALEN’S first glance round the empty room showed her the letter on the table.  The address, as the doctor had predicted, broke the news the moment she looked at it.

Not a word escaped her.  She sat down by the table, pale and silent, with the letter in her lap.  Twice she attempted to open it, and twice she put it back again.  The bygone time was not alone in her mind as she looked at her sister’s handwriting:  the fear of Kirke was there with it.  “My past life!” she thought.  “What will he think of me when he knows my past life?”

She made another effort, and broke the seal.  A second letter dropped out of the inclosure, addressed to her in a handwriting with which she was not familiar.  She put the second letter aside and read the lines which Norah had written: 

“Ventnor, Isle of Wight, August 24th.

“MY DEAREST MAGDALEN—­When you read this letter, try to think we have only been parted since yesterday; and dismiss from your mind (as I have dismissed from mine) the past and all that belongs to it.

“I am strictly forbidden to agitate you, or to weary you by writing a long letter.  Is it wrong to tell you that I am the happiest woman living?  I hope not, for I can’t keep the secret to myself.

“My darling, prepare yourself for the greatest surprise I have ever caused you.  I am married.  It is only a week to-day since I parted with my old name—­it is only a week since I have been the happy wife of George Bartram, of St. Crux.

“There were difficulties at first in the way of our marriage, some of them, I am afraid, of my making.  Happily for me, my husband knew from the beginning that I really loved him:  he gave me a second chance of telling him so, after I had lost the first, and, as you see, I was wise enough to take it.  You ought to be especially interested, my love, in this marriage, for you are the cause of it.  If I had not gone to Aldborough to search for the lost trace of you—­if George had not been brought there at the same time by circumstances in which you were concerned, my husband and I might never have met.  When we look back to our first impressions of each other, we look back to you.

“I must keep my promise not to weary you; I must bring this letter (sorely against my will) to an end.  Patience! patience!  I shall see you soon.  George and I are both coming to London to take you back with us to Ventnor.  This is my husband’s invitation, mind, as well as mine.  Don’t suppose I married him, Magdalen, until I had taught him to think of you as I think—­to wish with my wishes, and to hope with my hopes.  I could say so much more about this, so much more about George, if I might only give my thoughts and my pen their own way; but I must leave Miss Garth (at her own special request) a blank space to fill up on the last page of this letter; and I must only add one word more before I say good-by—­a word to warn you that I have another surprise in store, which I am keeping in reserve until we meet.  Don’t attempt to guess what it is.  You might guess for ages, and be no nearer than you are now to the discovery of the truth.  Your affectionate sister,