“A messenger?” exclaimed Bertha, and her cheek paled. “Why, who can it be? I know no one in Corsica——”
“He would tell me nothing except that he came from your guardian.”
“My guardian!” cried Bertha, and her pale face grew still whiter. “I will not see him.”
“I think it best that you should,” said the Countess, decidedly.
Bertha thought for a moment: “I will go down, if you will come with me.”
“I think it best that you should go alone,” the Countess rejoined.
When Bertha reached the room, a man who had been seated at the farther end arose and came towards her. He was heavily bearded and Bertha considered him to be a stranger to her. She lowered her eyes.
“You have come from my guardian?” she asked, in a voice hardly audible.
“Yes—he is dead.”
“Dead?” cried Bertha. She knew her thoughts were wicked, but the words gave her a sense of relief.