Then immediately I contradicted myself in my heart. He could not have gone away! And yet--and yet!--"Where is he?" I cried. "I have to speak to him: I have a great deal to say. Mr. Osborne!--he had better not do what I did; he is not a fool like me; he was not brought up like me, among ghosts in this house: he ought to know better than I!" Mr. Osborne took my hand again, made me sit down, and tried to soothe me. Then I told him of Edgar's absence. It was only one night; it was no such great matter; he smiled at my terror. But, at the same time, he bade me wait for him here, and went out to make inquiries. I remained for some time alone in the house--alone, with recollections of my father--of myself--of Harry--of all those young thoughts without wisdom, hopes without fear! I started up with renewed impatience. I could not, would not, suffer this unnatural folly to continue. Ah! it was very well to say that; but what could I do? When Mr. Osborne came back, he looked a little grave. I penetrated his thoughts in a moment;--he thought some accident had befallen Edgar. He advised me to go home immediately and see if there was any word--if I did not hear before to-morrow he would come out and advise with me, he said. So I went away again, alarmed, unsatisfied--reluctant that Mr. Osborne should come, yet clinging to the idea, and full of the dreariest anxiety to know what news there might be at home. As I drove along in the twilight of the sharp winter night, I tried to settle upon what I should do. Saville! If Edgar had left me, what could I do with this man? for I made up my mind to destroy the papers, and that my husband should never know of the doubt thrown upon him, if he had really gone away. We were very near Cottisbourne on the Cambridge side, driving rapidly, and it was now quite dark. The first sharp sparkles of light from the village windows were just becoming visible along the dreary length of road, and a few cold stars had come into the sky. My heart was beating fast enough already, quickening with every step we advanced on the road home, when some one shouted to us to stop. We did stop after a moment's confused parley, in which I could only distinguish that it was the Rector's name which induced the coachman to draw up. Mr. Saville! It was his office to communicate calamities--to tell widows and orphans when a sudden stroke made them desolate. A sudden horror overpowered me. I leaned out of the window speechless, gazing into the darkness; and when I saw the light of the carriage lamps falling upon the Rector's troubled face, I waved my hand to him imperiously, almost fierce in my terror. "Tell me!" I cried; "I can bear it. I can bear the very worst. Tell me!" He drew near with a fluttered, agitated air, while I tried to open the carriage door. With a sudden pang of joy and relief I saw that he did not understand me--that he had no _worst_ to tell; but was holding back by the arm the other Saville, the enemy of our house.