October was fast drifting away, and I knew that at its close my course
would be decided for me, should I not anticipate such despotism by
setting it at naught, in the only possible way--that of flying from the
scene of my oppression.
How to do this, and when, became the one problem of my existence; and it
was well for me that Mrs. Clayton was too great a sufferer to notice
beyond my external safety, or she might have seen clear indications of
some strange change at work, stamped upon my features.
My unsettled intentions were suddenly brought to a crisis by the
contents of a letter handed to me, as usual, in the shadows of the
evening, by the long-absent Dr. Englehart, who came in person, in
accordance with Mrs. Raymond's announcement (arriving, as it chanced,
while Mrs. Clayton slumbered), to deliver it.
Gregory wrote a large, clear hand, not difficult to decipher, even by
the dim light of a moonlight lamp; and, while Dr. Englehart stood
regarding me in the shadow, anxiously enough, I perceived, to keep me
entirely on my guard, I perused, with mingled derision and terror, this
truly characteristic epistle. My running commentaries, as I
read--entirely _sotto voce_, of course, for one does not care to rouse
the wrath of a tiger on the crouch, by flinging pebbles in the
jungle--may give some idea of the impression it made upon me, and the
emotions it excited.
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