CHAPTER XLVIII.
NEWS FOR CLAUDIA.
Oh, in their deaths, remember they are men,
Strain not revenge to wish their tortures grievous.
—Addison.
Death—even the most serene and beautiful death, coming to a good old man at the close of a long, beneficent life—is awful. Sudden and violent death, falling upon a strong young man in the midst of his sins and follies, is horrible. But perhaps the most appalling aspect under which the last messenger can appear is that of a deliberately inflicted judicial death.
Such a doom, pronounced upon the greatest sinner that ever lived, must move the pity of his bitterest enemy.
The family at Cameron Court formed a Christian household. They received the news of Frisbie's conviction with solemn, compassionate approbation. Justice approved the sentence; but mercy pitied the victim. And they passed the day of his execution in a Sabbath stillness.
They were glad when the day was over; glad when the late evening mail brought the afternoon papers from Banff, announcing that the tragedy was finished; glad to read there that the sinner had repented, confessed, and died, hoping in the mercy of the Father, through the atonement of sin.
Each one breathed a sigh of infinite relief to find that this sinner had not endangered his soul by impenitently rushing from man's temporal to God's eternal condemnation.
No one failed to see the immense importance of Frisbie's dying confession as evidence for the prosecution in the approaching trial of the Viscount Vincent and Faustina Dugald; or the fatal effect it must have upon the accused; yet no one spoke of it then and there. The day of stern retributive justice was not the time for unseemly triumph.
They separated for the night, gravely and almost sadly.
Claudia went up to her room, where her women, Katie and Sally, reinstated in her service, were in attendance. Sally, as usual, was silent and humble; Katie, equally as usual, talkative and dictatorial.
"And so de shamwally is hung at last! serbe him right; and I hopes it did him good; an' I wish it was my lordship an' de whited salt- peter along ob him!" she said, folding her arms ever her fat bosom and rolling herself from side to side with infinite satisfaction.
"For shame, Katie, to triumph so over a dead man! I should have thought a good Christian woman like you would have prayed for him before he died," said Claudia gravely.
"'Deed didn't I! An' I aint gwine to do it nuther. I aint gwine to bother my Hebbenly Master 'bout no sich grand vilyan! dere now!"
"Oh, Katie, Katie, I am afraid you are a great heathen!"
"Well, den, I just ruther be a heathen dan a whited salt-peter, or a shamwally, or a lordship either, if I couldn't do no more credit to it dan some," said Katie, having, as usual, the last word.
Claudia longed to be alone on this night; so she soon dismissed her attendants, closed up her room, put out all her lights, and lay down in darkness, solitude, and meditation.
Strange! but on this night her thoughts, and even her sympathies, were with Lord Vincent in his prison cell. Why should she think of him? Why should she pity him? She had never loved him, never even fancied that she loved him, even in the delusive days of courtship; or in the early days of marriage; and she had despised and shunned him in the miserable days of their estranged life at Castle Cragg. Why, then, as she lay there in the darkness, silence, and solitude of her own chamber, should her imagination hover over him? Why did she contemplate him in sorrow and in compassion?
Because in that dreary cell she saw the twofold man—the man that he ought to have been, and the man that he was; because she was his wife, and though she had never loved him, yet with better treatment she might have been won to do so; and finally, because she was a woman, and therefore full of sympathy with every sort of suffering.
She knew that the dying confession of Frisbie would seal Lord Vincent's fate. And she contemplated that fate as she had never done before.
Penal servitude.
Why it had seemed a mere, empty phrase until now. Now it was an appalling reality brimful of horror, even for the coarsest, dullest, and hardest criminal; but of how much more for him.
Lord Vincent in the prison garb, working in chains; inquired after by curious sight-seers; and pointed out to strangers as the felon- viscount.
She meditated on the effect all this would have on him, in the unspeakable misery it would inflict upon his vain, insolent, self- indulgent organization; and she marveled how he would ever endure it.
And she thought of the dishonor this would reflect upon herself as his wife. And she shrunk shudderingly away from the burning shame of living on, the wife of a felon.
In the deep compassion she could not but feel for him, and in the intense mortification she anticipated for herself, she earnestly wished that in some manner he might escape the degrading penalty of his crimes.
In these harassing thoughts and distressing feelings Claudia lay tossing upon her restless bed until long after midnight, when at length she dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Now the circumstance that I am about to relate will be interpreted in a different manner by different people. Rationalists who pin their faith on Sir Walter Scott and his "Demonology" will say it was only an optical illusion; the incredulous, who believe in nothing, will declare it was but a dream; while Spiritualists, who follow Mr. Robert Dale Owen in his "Footprints on the Boundaries of Another World," will be ready to declare that it was the apparition of a spirit; I commit myself to no opinion on the subject.
But when Claudia had slept soundly for three hours she was aroused by hearing her name called; she awoke with a violent start; she sat upright in bed, and stared right before her with fixed eyes, pallid face, and immovable form, as though she were suddenly petrified.
For there at the foot of the bed, between the tall posts, in the division formed by the festoons of the curtains, stood the figure of the Viscount Vincent. His face was pale, still, stern, like that of a dead man; one livid hand clutched his breast, the other was stretched towards her; and from the cold, blue, motionless lips proceeded a voice hollow as the distant moan of the wintry wind through leafless woods:
"Claudia, the debt is paid!"
With these words the vision slowly dissolved to air. Then, and not until then, was the icy spell that bound all Claudia's faculties loosened. She uttered piercing shriek upon shriek that startled all the sleepers in the house, and brought them rushing into her room. Katie and Sally being the nearest, were the first to enter.
"For Marster's sake, my ladyship, what is the matter?" inquired the old woman, while Sally stood by in a dumb terror.
"Oh, Katie, Katie! it was Lord Vincent! He has contrived to make his escape in some manner! He is out of prison! he is in this very house! he was in this room but a minute ago, though I do not see him now! and he spoke to me!"
"My goodness gracious me alibe, Miss Claudia, honey, it couldn't a been he! he's locked up safe in jail, you know! It mus' a been his sperrit!" said superstitious Katie, with the deepest awe.
"Claudia, my dearest, what is the matter? What is all this? What has happened?" anxiously inquired the Countess of Hurstmonceux, as, hastily wrapped in her dressing-gown, she hurried into the chamber and up to Claudia's bedside.
"Come closer, Berenice; stoop down; now listen! The viscount has broken prison! he was here but a moment ago! and he is gone! but his unexpected appearance in this place and at this hour, looking as he did so deathly pale, so livid and so corpse-like, frightened me nearly out of my senses, and I screamed with terror. I—I tremble even yet."
"My dearest Claudia, you have been dreaming. Compose yourself," said
Lady Hurstmonceux soothingly.
"My dearest Berenice, it was no dream, believe me. I was indeed asleep, fast asleep; but I was awakened by hearing myself called by name—'Claudia, Claudia, Claudia,' three times. And I opened my eyes and sat up in bed, and saw standing at the foot, looking at me between the curtains, Lord Vincent."
At this moment Judge Merlin, in his dressing-gown and slippers, came slowly into the chamber, looking around in a bewildered way and saying:
"They told me the screams proceeded from my daughter's apartment. What is the matter here? Claudia, my dear, what has happened? What has frightened you?" he inquired, approaching her bedside.
"Oh, my poor papa, have you been disturbed, too? How sorry I am!" said Claudia.
"Never mind me, my dear! What has happened to you?"
"Lady Vincent has been frightened by a disagreeable dream, sir," replied Lady Hurstmonceux, answering for her friend.
"My dear lady, you here!" exclaimed the judge, seeing her for the first time since he entered the room.
"I am a light sleeper," smiled the countess.
"I am very sorry, papa, that I aroused the house in this manner," said Claudia, with real regret in her tone.
"It was not like you to do so, for a dream, my dear," replied the judge gravely.
"It was no dream, papa! it was no dream, as the result will prove."
"What was it then, my dear?"
"It was the Viscount Vincent!"
"The Viscount Vincent!" exclaimed the judge, in astonishment.
"Yes, papa; he has contrived to escape and to enter this house and this very room. It was his sudden appearance that frightened me into the screaming fit that alarmed the household; and for which I am very sorry."
"The Viscount Vincent here! But how on earth could he have escaped from prison?"
"I do not know, papa. I only know by the evidence of my own senses that he has done so."
"My dearest Claudia, believe me, you have been dreaming. Judge Merlin, if you knew the great strength and security of our prisons, you would also know how impossible it would be for any prisoner to escape," said Lady Hurstmonceux, addressing in turn the father and the daughter.
"Berenice, that I have not been dreaming to-morrow will show. For to-morrow you and all concerned will know that Lord Vincent has escaped from prison. But my dear Berenice, and you, my dearest father, promise to me one thing; promise me not to give Lord Vincent up to justice; but to suffer him to get away from the country, if he can do so. That is doubtless all that he proposes to himself to do. And such exile will be punishment enough in itself for him, especially as it will involve the resignation of his rank, title, and inheritance. So let him get away if he can. He can work no further woe for me. Frisbie's dying confession has killed off all his calumnies against me. He is harmless henceforth. So leave him to God," pleaded Claudia.
"I am willing to do, or leave undone, whatever you please, my dear; but—do you really think that you actually did see the viscount, and that you did not only dream of seeing him?" inquired the judge, unable to get over his amazement.
"Yes, papa; I saw him; and to-morrow will prove that I did so," said
Claudia emphatically.
Lady Hurstmonceux smiled incredulously, for she did not reflect that there were more ways than one of breaking out of prison.
"But supposing it to have been the viscount; and supposing that he had succeeded in bursting locks and bars and eluding guards and sentinels; why should he have come here, of all places in the world? What could have been his motive in so risking a recapture?" inquired the judge, who seemed inclined to investigate the affair then and there.
"I do not know, papa. I have not had time to think. I was so astonished and even frightened at his mere appearance that I never asked myself the reason of it," answered Claudia.
"Did you not ask him?"
"No, papa. I only screamed."
"Did he not speak to you?"
"Yes, papa."
"What did he say?"
"Papa, I had better tell you just how it happened," answered Claudia, giving the judge a detailed account of the dream, vision, or ghost, as the reader chooses to call it; but which she persisted in declaring to be the viscount himself in the flesh.
"It is most extraordinary! How did he get out? Lady Hurstmonceux, had we not better have the house searched for him?" inquired the judge.
"It shall be done if you please, judge; though I think it unnecessary."
"Papa, no! he went as he came. Let him go. I hope he will be clear of the country before to-morrow morning."
At this moment the clock struck five, although it was still pitch- dark and far from the dawn of day.
"There! I declare it is to-morrow morning already, as the Irish would say. Lady Hurstmonceux, do not let me keep you up any longer. I know your usual hour for rising at this season of the year is eight o'clock. You will have three good hours' sleep before you yet. Papa, dear, go to bed or you will make yourself ill."
"Are you sure you will not have anything before I go, Claudia?" inquired the countess.
"Nothing whatever, dear; I think I shall sleep."
Lady Hurstmonceux stooped and kissed her friend, and then, with a smile and a bow to the judge, she retired from the room.
"Do you think now that you will rest, Claudia?" inquired the judge.
"Yes, papa, yes. Go to rest yourself."
He also stooped and kissed her, and then left the chamber.
"Go to bed, Katie and Sally," said Claudia to her women.
"'Deed 'fore de Lord aint I gwine to no bed to leabe you here by yourse'f. I don't want you to see no more sperrits," replied Katie. And she left the room for a few minutes and returned dragging in her mattress, which she spread upon the floor, and upon which she threw herself to sleep for the remainder of the dark hours.
Lady Vincent submitted to this intrusion, because she knew it would be utterly useless to expostulate. But Sally began to whimper.
"Now, den, what de matter long o' you? You seen a sperrit too?" demanded Katie.
"I's feared to sleep by myse'f, for fear I should see somethin'," wept Sally.
"Den you lay down here by me," ordered Katie.
And thus it was that Lady Vincent's two women shared her sleeping room the remainder of that disturbed night—to be disturbed no longer; for, whether it was owing to the presence of the negroes or not, Claudia slept untroubled by dream, vision, or apparition, until the daylight streaming through one window, that had been left unclosed, awakened her.
It was ten o'clock, however, before the family assembled at the breakfast table, where they were engaged in discussing the affair of the previous night, and in each maintaining his or her own opinion as to its character; Claudia persisting that it was the Viscount Vincent in person that she had seen; Berenice contending that it was a dream; and the judge hesitating between two opinions; Ishmael silent.
"A very few hours will now decide the question," said Claudia, abandoning the discussion and beginning to chip her egg. At this moment came a sound of wheels on the drive before the house, followed by a loud knock at the door.
"There! I should not in the least wonder if that is a detachment of police coming to tell us that Lord Vincent has broken prison, and bringing a warrant to search this house for him," said Claudia, half rising to listen.
A servant entered the room and said:
"Sergeant McRae is out in the hall, asking to see his honor the judge."
"I thought so," said Claudia briskly.
The judge went out to see the sergeant of police.
Claudia and Berenice suspended their breakfast, and waited in intense anxiety the result of the interview.
Some little time elapsed, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, though the impatience of the ladies made it seem an hour in length; and then the door slowly opened and the judge gravely re-entered the breakfast room.
"It is as I said. The Viscount Vincent has broken jail and they have come here with a search warrant to look for him!" exclaimed Claudia, glancing up at her father as he approached; but when she saw the expression of profound melancholy in his countenance, she started, turned pale, and cried:
"Good Heaven, papa, what—what has happened?"
"Partly what you have anticipated, Claudia. The Viscount Vincent has broken out of prison, but not in the manner you supposed," solemnly replied the judge, taking his daughter's arm and leading her to a sofa and seating her upon it.
Lady Hurstmonceux, startled, anxious, and alarmed, followed and stood by her and held her hand. And both ladies gazed inquiringly into the disturbed face of the old man.
"There is something—something behind! What is it, papa? The viscount has broken jail, you say! Has he—has he—killed one of the guards in making his escape?" inquired Claudia, in a low, awe- stricken voice.
"No, my dear, he has not done that. He has escaped the tribunal of man to rush uncalled to the tribunal of God," said the judge solemnly.
Claudia, though her dilated eyes were fixed in eager questioning on the face of her father, and though her ears were strained to catch his low-toned words, yet did not seem to gather in his meaning.
"What—what do you say, papa? Explain!" she breathed in scarcely audible syllables.
"The Viscount Vincent is dead!"
"Dead!" ejaculated Claudia.
"Dead!" echoed the countess.
"Dead, by his own act!" repeated the judge.
Claudia sank back in the corner of the sofa and covered her face with her hands—overcome, not by sorrow certainly, but by awe and pity.
Berenice sat down beside the newly made widow, and put her arms around her waist, and drew her head upon her bosom. Judge Merlin stood silently before them. The only one who seemed to have the full possession of his faculties was Ishmael.
He quietly dismissed the gaping servants from the room, closed the doors, and drew a resting-chair to the side of his old friend, and gently constrained him to sit down in it. And then he was about to glide away when the judge seized his hand and detained him, saying imploringly:
"No, no, Ishmael! no, no, my dearest young friend! do not leave us at this solemn crisis."
Ishmael placed his hand in that of the old man, as an earnest of fidelity, and remained standing by him.
After a little while Claudia lifted her head from the bosom of Lady
Hurstmonceux, and said:
"Oh, papa, this is dreadful!"
"Dreadful, indeed, my dear."
"That any human being should be driven to such a fate!"
"To such a crime, Claudia," gravely amended the judge.
"Crime, then, if you will call it so. But I do not wonder at it. May
God in his infinite mercy forgive him!" fervently prayed Claudia.
"Amen!" deeply responded the judge.
"Papa, they say that suicides are never forgiven—can never be forgiven—because their sin is the last act of their life, affording no time for repentance. Yet who knows that for certain? Who knows but in the short interval between the deed and the death, there may not be repentance and pardon?"
"Who knows, indeed! 'With God all things are possible.'"
"Oh, papa, I hope he repented and is pardoned!"
"I hope so too, Claudia."
She dropped her head once more upon the bosom of Lady Hurstmonceux, in pity and in awe; but not in sorrow, for his death was an infinite relief to her and to all connected with him. After a little while she raised her head again, and in a low, hushed voice, inquired:
"Papa, at what hour did he die?"
"Between four and five o'clock this morning, my dear."
"Between four and five o'clock this morning! Good Heavens!" exclaimed Claudia and Berenice simultaneously, starting and gazing into each other's faces.
"What is the matter?" gravely inquired the judge.
"That was the very hour in which Claudia was awakened by her strange dream!" replied Lady Hurstmonceux.
"Oh, papa! that was the very hour in which I saw Lord Vincent standing at the foot of my bed!" exclaimed Claudia, with a shudder.
"How passing strange!" mused the judge.
"Oh, papa! can such things really be? can a parting spirit appear to us the moment it leaves the body?" inquired Claudia, in an awe- struck manner.
"My dear if anyone had related to me such a strange circumstance as this, of which we are all partly cognizant, I should have discredited the whole affair. As it is, I know not what to make of it. It may have been a dream; nay, it must have been a dream; yet, even as a dream, occurring just at the hour it did, it was certainly an astonishing and a most marvelous coincidence."
Again Claudia dropped her head upon the supporting bosom of Lady Hurstmonceux, but this time it was in weariness and in thought that she reposed there.
A few minutes passed, and then, without lifting her head, she murmured:
"Tell me all about it, papa; I must learn some time; as well now as any other."
"Can you bear to hear the story now, Claudia?"
"Better now, I think, than at a future time; I am in a measure prepared for it now. How did it happen, papa?"
The judge drew closer to his daughter, took her hand in his, and said:
"I will tell you, as McRae told me, my dear. You must know that from the time Lord Vincent read the published confession of Frisbie, in the afternoon papers, he became so much changed in all respects as to excite the attention, then the suspicion, and finally the alarm of his keepers. At six o'clock after the turnkey, Donald, had paid his last visit to his prisoner, and locked up the cell for the night, he reported the condition of Lord Vincent to the governor of the jail. Mr. Gra'ame, on hearing the account given by Donald, determined to curtail many of the privileges his lordship had hitherto, as an untried prisoner, enjoyed. Among the rest he determined that nothing more should be carried to his lordship in his cell that he, the governor, had not first examined, as a precautionary measure against drugs or tools, with which the prisoner might do himself a mischief."
"I should think they ought to have taken that precaution from the first," said Claudia.
"It is not usual in the case of an untried prisoner; but, however, the governor of Banff jail seemed to think as you do, for he farther determined to make a special visit to the prisoner that night, to search his cell and remove from it everything with which he might possibly injure himself. And accordingly the governor, accompanied by the turnkey, went to the cell and made a thorough search. They found nothing suspicious, however. But in their late though excessive caution they carried away, not only the prisoner's razor, but his pen-knife and scissors. And then they left him."
"And after all, left him with the means of self-destruction," exclaimed Claudia.
"No, they did not. You shall hear. About eight o'clock that night, as the watchman of that ward was pacing his rounds, he heard deep groans issuing from Lord Vincent's cell. He went and gave the alarm. The warden, the physician, and the turnkey entered the cell together. They found the viscount in the agonies of death."
"Great Heavens! Alone and dying in his cell!"
"Yes; and suffering even more distress of mind than of body. When it was too late, he regretted his rash deed. For he freely confessed that being driven to despair and almost if not quite to madness, by the desperate state of his affairs, he had procured laudanum through the agency of his servant, having persuaded the old man that he merely wanted the medicine to allay pain."
"Poor, poor soul!"
"Cuthbert, simple and unsuspicious, and as easily deceived as a child, brought the laudanum to him and bid him adieu for the night. And it was in the interval between the last visit of the turnkey and the special visit of the governor that the prisoner drank the whole of the laudanum. And then to prevent suspicion he washed the label from the bottle and poured in a little ink from his inkstand. So that when the governor made his visit of inspection, although he actually handled that bottle, he took it for nothing else but a receptacle for ink."
"Oh, how dreadful! how dreadful, that anyone should exercise so much calculation, cunning, and foresight for the destruction of his own soul!" moaned Claudia.
"Yes; he himself thought so at last; for no sooner did the poison begin to do its work, no sooner did he feel death approaching, than he was seized with horror at the enormity of his own crime, and with remorse for the sins of his whole life. It would seem that in that hour his eyes were opened for the first time, and he saw himself as he really was, a rampant rebel against all the laws of God and on the brink of eternal perdition. It was the great agony of mind produced by this view of himself and his condition that forced from him those deep groans that were heard by the night-watch, who brought the relief to him."
"Then he must have repented. Oh! I hope that God forgave him!" prayed Claudia, with earnest tones and clasped hands.
"You may be sure that God did forgive him if he truly repented! Certainly it seemed that he repented; for he begged for antidotes, declaring that he wished to live to atone for the sins of his past. Antidotes were administered, but without the least good effect. And when he repeated his earnest wish to be permitted to live that he might 'atone by his future life for the sins of his past,' the physician, who is a good man, sent for the chaplain of the jail, a fervent Christian, who told the prisoner how impossible it was for him, should he have a new lease of life, to atone, by years of penance, for the smallest sin of his soul; but pointed him at the same time to the One Divine Atoner, who is able to save to the uttermost. The chaplain remained praying with the dying man until half-past four o'clock this morning, when he breathed his last. That is all, Claudia."
"Oh, papa, you see he did repent; and I will hope that God has pardoned him," said Claudia earnestly; but she was very pale and faint, and she leaned heavily upon the shoulder of Lady Hurstmonceux.
"My dearest Claudia, let me lead you to your room; you require repose after this excitement," said the countess, giving her arm to the new widow.
Claudia arose; but the judge gently arrested her progress.
"Stay, my dear! One word before you go. The business of McRae here was not only to announce the death of Lord Vincent, but also the approaching trial of Faustina Dugald. It comes on at ten o'clock to- morrow morning. You are summoned as a witness for the prosecution. Therefore, my dear, we must leave Edinboro' for Banff by the afternoon express train."
"Oh, papa! to appear in a public court at such a time!" exclaimed
Claudia, with a shudder.
"I know it is hard, my dear. I know it must be dreadful; but I also know that the way of Justice is like the progress of the Car of Juggernaut. It stops for nothing; it rolls on in its irresistible course, crushing under its iron wheels all conventionalities, all proprieties, all sensibilities. And I know also, my daughter, that you are equal to the duties, the exertions, and the sacrifices that Justice requires of you. There, go now! take what repose you can for the next few hours, to be ready for the train at six o'clock," said the judge, stooping, and pressing a kiss upon his daughter's brow, before the countess led her away.
"Ishmael," said the judge, as soon as they were alone, "do you know what you and I have got to do now?"
"Yes, sir," said the young man solemnly, "I know."
"That poor, unhappy man in yonder prison has no friend or relative to claim his body, his father being absent; and if we do not claim it, it will be ignominiously buried by the prison authorities within the prison walls."
"I thought of that, but waited for your suggestion. If you please I will see the proper authorities to-morrow and make arrangements with them."
"Do, my dear young friend," said the judge, wringing his hand as he left him.
Amid the great crises of life its small proprieties must still be observed. This the Countess of Hurstmonceux knew. And, therefore, as soon as she had seen Claudia reposing on her comfortable sofa in her chamber, she ordered her carriage and drove to Edinboro', and to a celebrated mourning warehouse where they got up outfits on the shortest notice, and there she procured a widow's complete dress, including the gown, mantle, bonnet, veil, and gloves, and took them home to Claudia. For she knew that if Lady Vincent were compelled to appear in the public courtroom the next day, she must wear widow's weeds.
When she took these articles into Claudia's room and showed them to her, the latter said:
"My dear Berenice, I thank you very much for your thoughtful care. But do you know that it would seem like hypocrisy in me to wear this mourning?"
"My dearest Claudia, conventionalities must be observed though the heavens fall. You owe this to yourself, to society, and even to the dead—for in his death he has atoned for much to you."
"I will wear them then," said Claudia.
And there the matter ended.
Meanwhile, the news of Lord Vincent's death had got about among the servants. Katie and Sally also had heard of it.
So that when Lady Vincent rang for her women to come and pack up her traveling trunk to go to Banff, Katie entered full of the subject.
"So my lordship has gone to his account, and all from takin' of an overdose of laudamy drops. How careful people ought to be when they meddles long o' dat sort o' truck. Well, laws! long as he's dead and gone I forgibs him for heavin' of me down to lib long o' de rats, and den sellin' ob me to de barbariums in de Stingy Isles. 'Deed does I forgibs him good too. and likewise de shamwally while I'se got my hand in at forgibness," she said.
"That's right, Katie. Never let your hatred follow a man to the grave," said Claudia.
"I wouldn't forgib 'em if dey wasn't dead, dough. 'Deed wouldn't I. I tell you all good too. And if dey was to come back to life I would just take my forgibness back again. And it should all be just like it was before," said Katie, sharply defining her position.
Claudia sadly shook her head.
"That is a very questionable species of forgiveness, Katie," she said.
That afternoon the whole party, including the Countess of Hurstmonceux, who declared her intention of supporting Claudia through the approaching ordeal, left Cameron Court for Edinboro', where they took the six o'clock train for Banff, where they arrived at ten the same evening.
They went to the "Highlander," where they engaged comfortable apartments and settled themselves for a few days.