“He is not there,” returned my Lady in a low, calm voice, “but I see him all the same. Pallid with scorn, yet bent on avenging himself. Resolved to claim his wife at any hazard, even in spite of herself. It will be terrible that he should be here in any case; but if he found me here, as you say, there might be murder done. Not that I fear for myself, God knows: I am too wretched for that.” “Oh, my Lady, had you not better start at once?” “No, Mary; I must go first to Dr Haldane's, since the time has come. But if, in the meantime, this--this unhappy man should arrive, be sure you send the carriage for me at once to the doctor's house. I can escape him that way for certain. Perhaps, then, I may never cross this threshold any more--never clasp my dear ones in my arms and call them mine again--never say: 'My own Walter--Richard--Letty.' How can I bear to think upon it! Don't cry, Mary, for you see _I_ do not. You know what to do in case he comes; the carriage to Dr Haldane's instantly: and afterwards--we have settled that long ago.” “I shall forget nothing, dearest mistress. If I live, all will be done that you have resolved upon.” “Dear Mary, trusty friend, may Heaven reward you.” My Lady had her bonnet on by this time, but lifted up her veil to kiss her faithful servant. “If by God's gracious will, somehow or other this misery should after all have no evil end, Mary, how happy we shall be! How we shall talk of this with our arms round one another's necks! There is a friend, says the Scripture, which sticketh closer than a brother; but I have found a servant better even than such a friend. Good-bye, dear; if it should chance to be 'Good-bye.' Don't weep, don't speak. See that my path is clear, that I meet no one----Great Heaven, what is that knocking? Can he be come already?” “No, dearest, no,” sobbed the poor waiting-maid. “They are putting up the triumphal archway, that is all.” She left the room to see that there was nobody in the passage, or on the back-stairs, by which her mistress was about to leave the house. “The triumphal archway,” muttered my Lady with tearless aching eyes. “I would to Heaven they were putting the nails into my coffin instead.” CHAPTER VIII. FLED. |MY Lady returned to the Abbey at the usual luncheon-hour, and partook of that meal (if sitting at the table can be called so doing) with the rest of the party; while Mary Forest kept watch at the boudoir window, with her mistress's opera-glasses in her hand, scanning the Windmill Hill.