So much was gained; but Sydney's spirits did not rise at once. He was conscious of some relief from the agony of suspense, but black care and anxiety sat behind him still. He was freer to come and go, however, than he had been for some time, and the first use he made of his liberty was to go to the very person whom he had once vowed never to see again—his sister Lettice.
She had written to him since his interview with her at Bute Lodge. She had told him of Alan's departure, and—to some extent—of its cause: she had given him the address of the lodgings to which she was now going (for a continued residence at Bute Lodge was beyond her means), and she sent him her sisterly love—and that was all. She had not condescended to any justification of her own conduct, nor had she alluded to the accusations that he had made, nor to his own discomfiture. But there had been enough quiet warmth in the letter to make him conscious that he might count on her forgiveness and affection if he desired it. And he did desire it. In the long hours of those sleepless nights and weary days in which he had waited for better news of Nan, it was astonishing to find how clearly the years of his boyhood had come back to him—those quiet, peaceful years in which he had known nothing of the darker sides of life, when the serene atmosphere of the rectory and the village had been dear to his heart, and Lettice had been his cherished companion and trusty comrade in work or play. It was like going back into another world—a purer and a truer world than the one in which he lived now.
And in these hours of retrospect, he came to clearer and truer conclusions respecting Lettice's character and course of action than he had been able to do before he was himself smitten by the hand of Fate. Lettice was interpreted to him by Nan. There were women in the world, it seemed, who had consciences, and pure hearts, and generous emotions: it was not for him to deny it now. And he had been very hard on Lettice in days gone by. He turned to her now with a stirring of affection which he had not known for years.
But when he entered Lettice's room, and she came to meet him, gravely, and with a certain inquiry in her look, he suddenly felt that he had no reason to give for his appearance there.
"Sydney!" she had exclaimed in surprise. Then, after the first long glance, and with a quick change of tone: "Sydney, are you ill?"
For he was haggard and worn, as she had never seen him, with dark lines under his eyes, and an air of prostration and fatigue.
"No, I'm very well. It's Nan—my wife," he said, avoiding her alarmed gaze.
"I am sorry—very sorry. Is she——"
"She has been on the brink of death. There is some hope now. I don't know why I came here unless it was to tell you so," said Sydney, with an odd abruptness which seemed to be assumed in order to mask some unusually strong feeling. "I suppose you know that the man Johnson came to see me——"
"Yes: they have gone," said Lettice, quickly. "They were married yesterday, and sailed this morning."