looks so at me, when I’m waiting on her, that I’m almost afraid to be in the same room with her. I’ve never heard her mention your name once, Sir; and I’m fearful there’s something on her mind that there oughtn’t to be. He’s a very shabby man that leaves the letters—would you please to look at this, and say whether you think it’s right in me to take it upstairs.”
She held out a letter. I hesitated before I looked at it.
“Oh, Sir! please, please do take it!” said the girl earnestly. “I did wrong, I’m afraid, in giving her the first; but I can’t do wrong again, when my poor mistress is dying in the house. I can’t keep secrets, Sir, that may be bad secrets, at such a dreadful time as this; I couldn’t have laid down in my bed tonight, when there’s likely to be death in the house, if I hadn’t confessed what I’ve done; and my poor mistress has always been so kind and good to us servants—better than ever we deserved.”
Weeping bitterly as she said this, the kindhearted girl held out the letter to me once more. This time I took it from her, and looked at the address.
Though I did not know the handwriting, still there was something in those unsteady characters which seemed familiar to me. Was it possible that I had ever seen them before? I tried to consider; but my memory was confused, my mind wearied out, after all that had happened since the morning. The effort was fruitless: I gave back the letter.
“I know as little about it, Susan, as you do.”
“But ought I to take it upstairs, Sir? only tell me that!”
“It is not for me to say. All interest or share on my part, Susan, in what she—in what your young mistress receives, is at an end.”
“I’m very sorry to hear you say that, Sir; very, very sorry. But what would you advise me to do?”