Thus was the angelic messenger, musical with silvery wings, who visited honest General Lennox in his lodgings off Piccadilly, accompanied all the way, in the long flight from Slowton to the London terminus, by a dark spirit of compensation, to appal him with a doubt. Varbarriere's letter had been posted at Wardlock by his own servant Jacques--a precaution he chose to adopt, as he did not care that anyone at the little town of Marlowe, far less at the Manor, should guess that he had anything on earth to say to General Lennox. When the two letters reached that old gentleman, he opened Lady Jane's first; for, as we know, he had arrived at the amorous age, and was impatient to read what his little Jennie had to say; and when he had read it once, he had of course to read it all over again; then he kissed it and laughed tremulously over it, and was nearer to crying than he would have confessed to anyone--even to her; and he read it again at the window, where he was seen by seedy Captain Fezzy, who was reading _Bell's Life_, across, the street, in the three-pair-of-stairs window, and by Miss Dignum, the proprietress, from the drawing-room, with a countenance so radiant and moved as to interest both spectators from their different points of view. Thus, with many re-perusals and pleasant castle-buildings, and some airs gently whistled in his reveries, he had nearly forgotten M. Varbarriere's letter. He was so gratified--he always knew she cared for her old man, little Jennie--she was not demonstrative, all the better perhaps for that; and here, in this delightful letter, so grateful, so sad, so humble, it was all confessed--demonstrated, at last; and old General Lennox thought infinitely better of himself, and far more adoringly of his wife than ever, and was indescribably proud and happy. Hitherto his good angel had had it all his own way; the other spirit was now about to take his turn--touched him on the elbow and presented Monsieur Varbarriere's letter, with a dark smile. "Near forgetting this, by Jove!" said the old gentleman with the white moustache and eyebrows, taking the letter in his gnarled pink fingers. "What the devil can the fellow mean? I think he's a fool," said the General, very pale and stern, when he had read the letter twice through. If the people at the other side had been studying the transition of human countenance, they would have had a treat in the General's, now again presented at his drawing-room window, where he stood leaning grimly on his knuckles. Still oftener, and more microscopically, was this letter spelled over than the other. "It can't possibly refer to Jane. It _can't_. I put that out of my head--_quite_," said the poor General energetically to himself, with a short wave of his hand like a little sabre-cut in the air.