"A letter for you, sir," said John Eyles. "It came by a messenger lad."
"Fetch a candle, John," said Goldsmith, taking the letter. It was too dark for him to see the handwriting, but he put the tip of his finger on the seal and became aware that it was Mary Horneck's.
By the light of the candle he broke the seal, and read the few lines that the letter contained--
_Come to me, my dear friend, without delay, for heaven's sake. Your ear only can hear what I have to tell. You may be able to help me, but if not, then. . . . Oh, come to me to-night. Your unhappy Jessamy Bride._
He did not delay an instant. He caught up his hat and left his chambers. He did not even think of the resolution to which he had just come, never to see Mary Horneck again. All his thoughts were lost in the one thought that he was about to stand face to face with her.
He stood face to face with her in less than half an hour. She was in the small drawing-room where he had seen her on the day after the production of "She Stoops to Conquer." Only a few wax candles were lighted in the cut-glass sconces that were placed in the centre of the panels of the walls. Their light was, however, sufficient to make visible the contrast between the laughing face of the girl in Reynolds's picture of her and her sister which hung on the wall, and the sad face of the girl who put her hand into his as he was shown in by the servant.
"I knew you would come," she said. "I knew that I could trust you."
"You may trust me, indeed," he said. He held her hand in his own, looking into her pale face and sunken eyes. "I knew the time would come when you would tell me all that there is to be told," he continued. "Whether I can help you or not, you will find yourself better for having told me."
She seated herself on the sofa, and he took his place beside her. There was a silence of a minute or two, before she suddenly started up, and, after walking up and down the room nervously, stopped at the mantelpiece, leaning her head against the high slab, and looking into the smouldering fire in the grate.
He watched her, but did not attempt to express the pity that filled his heart.
"What am I to tell you--what am I to tell you?" she cried at last, resuming her pacing of the floor.