"The stage-door
keeper just brought it round. But you haven't time to read it now."
A wave of faintness swept over me. Supposing Ivor had had bad news, and
thought it best to warn me without delay?
"I must read the letter," I insisted. "Give it to me at once."
Occasionally Marianne (who has been with me for many years, and is old
enough to be my mother) argues a matter on which we disagree: but
something in my voice, I suppose, made her obey me with extraordinary
promptness. Then came a shock--and not of relief. I recognised on the
envelope the handwriting of Count Godensky.
I know that I am not a coward. Yet it was only by the strongest effort
of will that I forced myself to open that letter. I was afraid--afraid
of a hundred things. But most of all, I was afraid of learning that the
treaty was in his hands. It would be like him to tell me he had it, and
try to drive some dreadful bargain.
Nerving myself, as I suppose a condemned criminal must nerve himself to
go to the guillotine or the gallows, I opened the letter. For as long as
I might have counted "one, two," slowly, the paper looked black before
my eyes, as if ink were spilt over it, blotting out the words: but the
dark smudge cleared away, and showed me--nothing, except that, if Alexis
Godensky held a trump card, I was not to have a sight of it until later,
when he chose.
Pages:
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146