Mr. Belmont might not be a very estimable man, but he had been kind to his sister, evidently; and she must needs grieve for him indeed when she learned the manner of his death, which would be worse to bear than the death itself.
She had half a mind to give her a hint that would prepare her for what was coming, and was trying to pick out words that would be a warning and not a revelation, when Mrs. O’Hara caught sight of a masculine figure at the end of the hall, and darted off precipitately. Her bold laugh followed Lady Gwendolyn into the garden and sharpened her mood. Somehow, she thought now that Mrs. O’Hara would get over her trouble very easily, and only hoped it would take her away from Bridgton Hall before she had had time to do any mischief.
She felt so weary and sick at heart she could have sat down in the hedge and let all the winds of heaven beat upon her, if she could only feel sure that they would beat this miserable life out of her, and give her rest.
“For the world is such a cruel, unsatisfactory place,” she said to herself, in the impatience of a first grief. “To live is to suffer, and, therefore, it were better to die.”
No doubt if she had felt the chill hand grasping her, she would have urged a very different prayer; but Gwendolyn had never known sorrow before, and the pressure of the wound irritated her. She would have given up all the promise of the future to be rid of her present pain.
Meanwhile, Lady Teignmouth rang for her maid.
“Do you know where the post-office at Bridgton is?” she asked.
Clémentine could not say that she did.
“Anyhow, it will be easy enough to find out,” continued her mistress. “Put on your bonnet as quickly as possible, Clémentine, and take this telegram there. You can write English well now, but must be careful that your letters are clear and distinct.”
“And am I to wait for an answer,” inquired the French woman naïvely.