That, however, was all over now, and he bade her a final farewell, but as the chances were that she would not be contented without knowing where to address him, he informed her that any letter forwarded to Mr. Thompson, Evelina-road, Peckham, would be sure to reach him; the said Mr. Thompson being an old friend of his would be sure to know where to find him.
So far the letter from Rawton was explicit enough, and Mrs. Bourne felt that all communication was not cut off from herself and the man to whom she owed a deep debt of gratitude.
“Poor fellow,” she ejaculated, “he’s self-sacrificing and magnanimous enough. His conduct to me is, I presume, the one bright spot on his character—perhaps the only one, for it is evident enough that for years he has been leading a lawless and depraved life. Dear me! but this is all very terrible. I do not desire, however, to see him again, and shall, therefore, as far as that is concerned, take him at his word; but, this Mr. Thompson, I wonder who he can be—some worthless character I suppose. Well, I can leave him a cheque or bank-note enclosed in a letter addressed to Rawton. Yes, that will be my best course.”
When the sale was over and the goods removed, Mrs. Bourne took furnished lodgings in Somerset-street, Portman-square.
As yet she had not determined her course of action.
She thought of taking up her residence in Paris for awhile.
She spoke French fluently, and understood something of German.
Indeed, she was what is called an accomplished woman, who shone in society as a sort of star.
She was a good musician, an excellent singer, and, as we have already signified, had at one time been an actress of no inconsiderable merit.
But with Dr. Bourne she had been buried as far as the external world was concerned. She was so depressed, so miserable, that she had not the heart to go into society to the extent she had done before her fatal marriage.