So great is the power of printer's ink, that
if you say a thing face to face, your own wife even will take no notice
of it; but if you set it up in type anonymously, she, and the world at
large to boot, will treat it like an inspired oracle in stone fallen
down direct from the seventh heaven. And yet somehow Harry Pallant couldn't make up his mind at once to break
open the tiny envelope of that mysterious, incomprehensible letter. At last he broke it, and read it hurriedly. As he did so a terrible,
ominous pang came across his heart, and the writing, familiar as it was,
swam illegibly in dancing lines before his strained and aching vision. "Dear Mr. Editor," the letter began, somewhat shakily, "you give
     your advice and assistance to many people. Will you give it to me? Will you help me? Will you save me? "This is my position. I was married young to a man I did not love,
     but liked and respected. I thought love would come afterwards. It
     never came. On the contrary, the longer I have lived with him the
     less I care for him. Not that he is unkind to me--he is good enough
     and generous enough in all conscience; but he inspires me with no
     affection and no enthusiasm. Till lately this was all I felt. I did
     not love him, but I jogged along comfortably somehow. "Now, however, I find to my dismay that I am in love--not with him,
     but with another man a hundred times more congenial to my tastes
     and feelings in every way. I have done no wrong, but I think of him
     and live in him all my time. I cannot for a moment dismiss him from
     my thoughts. Oh, what am I to do? Tell me, help me! "I can never love my husband--of that I am certain. I can never
     leave off loving the other--of that I am still more confident. Can
     you advise me? Can you relieve me? This torture is too terrible. It
     is killing me--killing me. "Yours ever, in strict confidence,
  "EGERIA." Harry Pallant gazed at that awful accusing letter in blank horror and
speechless bewilderment. He could not even cry or groan. He could not
utter a word or shed a tear. The shock was so sudden, so crushing, so
unexpected, so irretrievable! He had never till that moment in the faintest degree doubted that Louie
loved him as he loved her--devotedly, distractedly. Why, that very morning, before he came away on his journey to the
Temple, Louie had kissed him so tenderly and affectionately, and called
him "darling," and wished he hadn't always to go to that horrid City. How the memory stung him! Yes; that was the hardest thought of all. If Louie wrote it, Louie was a
hypocrite. Not only did she not now love him--not only had she never
loved him, but, lowest depth of misery and shame, she had pretended to
love him when in her heart of hearts she hated and despised him. He
couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. In her own words, it was
too terrible! If Louie wrote it? He turned the letter over once more. Ah, yes, there
was no denying it. It was Louie's handwriting--Louie's, Louie's. His
brain reeled, but he could not doubt it or palter over it for a moment. Not even disguised--her very own handwriting. It was the seal of doom
for him, yet he could not even pretend to disbelieve it. He sat there long, incapable of realizing the full horror of that
crushing, destroying, annihilating disclosure. It was useless trying to
realize it--thank God for that! It so dazed and stunned and staggered
and bewildered him that he fell for a time into a sort of hopeless
lethargy, and felt and saw and thought of nothing. At last he roused himself. He must go out. He rose from the table by the
dingy window, took up his hat dreamily in his hand, and walked down the
stairs, out of the gateway, and into the full tide of life and bustle in
busy Fleet Street. The cooler air upon his forehead and the sight of so many hurrying,
active figures sobered and steadied him. He walked with rapid strides as
far as Charing Cross Station, and then back again. After that, he came
into his chambers once more, sat down resolutely at his table by
himself, and began to write in a trembling shaky hand his answer to
"Egeria." How often he had written a different answer to just the same type of
tragic little letter--an answer of the commonplace conventional
morality, a small set sermon on the duties of wives and the rights of
husbands--as though there was nothing more in that fearful disclosure
than the merest fancy; and now, when at last it touched himself, how
profoundly awful in their mockery of the truth those baldly respectable
answers seemed to him! "EGERIA.--Your letter shall be treated, as you wish, in strict
     confidence. No one but ourselves shall ever know of it. You need
     not fear that H. P. will any longer prove a trouble to you. By the
     time you read this you will have learnt, or will shortly learn,
     that he is not in a position to cause you further discomfort. This
     is the only intimation you will receive of his intention. You will
     understand what it all means soon after you read this
     communication." He rang the hand-bell on the table for his boy, put the answers into a
long blue envelope, and said mechanically in a dry voice, "To the _Young
People's Monitor_. For press immediately." The boy nodded a mute assent,
and took them off to the office in silent obedience. As soon as he was gone Harry Pallant locked the door, flung himself upon
the table with his head buried madly in his arms, and sobbed aloud in
terrible despondency. He had found at least the relief of tears. There was only one comfort. He was fully insured, and Hugh Ogilvie was a
rich man. Louie at least would be well provided for. He cared for
nothing except for Louie. If Louie was happier--happier without him,
what further need had he got for living? He had never thought before of Hugh, but now, now, Dora's words came
back to him at once, and he saw it all--he saw it all plainly. Heaven be praised, they had no children! If they had had children--well,
well, as things now stood, he could do what was best for Louie's
happiness. III. For the next two days Louie could not imagine what sudden change had
come so inexplicably over Harry Pallant. He was quite as tender and as
gentle as ever, but so silent, sad, and incomprehensible. Louie coaxed
him and petted him in vain; the more she made of him the more Harry
seemed to retreat within himself, and the less could she understand what
on earth he was thinking of. On the Thursday night, when Harry came back from his work in the City,
he said to Louie in an off-hand tone, "Louie, I think of running down
to-morrow to dear old Bilborough." "What for, darling?" "Well, you know, I've been fearfully out of sorts lately--worried or
something--and I think three or four days at the seaside would be all
the better for me--and for you too, darling. Let's go to the Red Lion,
Louie.