While she was still considering the question she was startled by a knock
at her door. On opening it she admitted Lady Janet's maid, with a morsel
of folded note-paper in her hand.
"From my lady, miss," said the woman, giving her the note. "There is no
answer."
Mercy stopped her as she was about to leave the room. The appearance of
the maid suggested an inquiry to her. She asked if any of the servants
were likely to be going into town that afternoon.
"Yes, miss. One of the grooms is going on horseback, with a message to
her ladyship's coach-maker."
The Refuge was close by the coach-maker's place of business. Under the
circumstances, Mercy was emboldened to make use of the man. It was a
pardonable liberty to employ his services now.
"Will you kindly give the groom that letter for me?" she said. "It will
not take him out of his way. He has only to deliver it--nothing more."
The woman willingly complied with the request. Left once more by
herself, Mercy looked at the little note which had been placed in her
hands.
It was the first time that her benefactress had employed this formal
method of communicating with her when they were both in the house. What
did such a departure from established habits mean? Had she received her
notice of dismissal? Had Lady Janet's quick intelligence found its way
already to a suspicion of the truth? Mercy's nerves were unstrung. She
trembled pitiably as she opened the folded note.
It began without a form of address, and it ended without a signature.
Thus it ran: "I must request you to delay for a little while the explanation which
you have promised me. At my age, painful surprises are very trying
things. I must have time to compose myself, before I can hear what you
have to say. You shall not be kept waiting longer than I can help. In
the meanwhile everything will go on as usual. My nephew Julian, and
Horace Holmcroft, and the lady whom I found in the dining-room, will, by
my desire, remain in the house until I am able to meet them, and to meet
you, again."
There the note ended. To what conclusion did it point?
Had Lady Janet really guessed the truth? or had she only surmised that
her adopted daughter was connected in some discreditable manner with
the mystery of "Mercy Merrick"? The line in which she referred to the
intruder in the dining-room as "the lady" showed very remarkably that
her opinions had undergone a change in that quarter. But was the
phrase enough of itself to justify the inference that she had actually
anticipated the nature of Mercy's confession? It was not easy to decide
that doubt at the moment--and it proved to be equally difficult to
throw any light on it at an aftertime. To the end of her life Lady Janet
resolutely refused to communicate to any one the conclusions which she
might have privately formed, the griefs which she might have secretly
stifled, on that memorable day.