“Madam,—­I write to tell you of the condition of the poor young woman”—­(here came a long pause of deliberation)—­“who accompanied your son on his arrival here, and who was left behind on your departure yesterday.  She is lying (as it appears to me) in a very dangerous state at my lodgings; and, if I may suggest, it would be kind to allow your maid to return and attend upon her until she is sufficiently recovered to be restored to her friends, if, indeed, they could not come to take charge of her themselves.—­I remain, madam, your obedient servant Thurstan Benson.”

The note was very unsatisfactory after all his consideration, but it was the best he could do.  He made inquiry of a passing servant as to the lady’s name, directed the note, and placed it on the indicated shelf.  He then returned to his lodgings, to await the doctor’s coming and the postboy’s return.  There was no alteration in Ruth; she was as one stunned into unconsciousness; she did not move her posture, she hardly breathed.  From time to time Mrs. Hughes wetted her mouth with some liquid, and there was a little mechanical motion of the lips; that was the only sign of life she gave.  The doctor came and shook his head,—­“a thorough prostration of strength, occasioned by some great shock on the nerves,”—­and prescribed care and quiet, and mysterious medicines, but acknowledged that the result was doubtful, very doubtful.  After his departure, Mr. Benson took his Welsh grammar and tried again to master the ever-puzzling rules for the mutations of letters; but it was of no use, for his thoughts were absorbed by the life-in-death condition of the young creature, who was lately bounding and joyous.

The maid and the luggage, the car and the driver; bad arrived before noon at their journey’s end, and the note had been delivered.  It annoyed Mrs. Bellingham exceedingly.  It was the worst of these kind of connections,—­there was no calculating the consequences; they were never-ending.  All sorts of claims seemed to be established, and all sorts of people to step in to their settlement.  The idea of sending her maid!  Why, Simpson would not go if she asked her.  She soliloquised thus while reading the letter; and then, suddenly turning round to the favourite attendant, who had been listening to her mistress’s remarks with no inattentive ear, she asked—­

“Simpson, would you go and nurse this creature, as this——­” she looked at the signature—­“Mr. Benson, who ever he is, proposes?”

“Me! no, indeed, ma’am,” said the maid, drawing herself up, stiff in her virtue.

“I’m sure, ma’am, you:  would not expect it of me; I could never have the face to dress a lady of character again.”

“Well, well! don’t be alarmed; I cannot spare you:  by the way, just attend to the strings on my dress; the chambermaid here pulled them into knots, and broke them terribly, last night.  It is awkward, though, very,” said she, relapsing into a musing fit over the condition of Ruth.