“But what can you do, miss?” gasped Bessie, who knew that when her mistress had made up her mind any further remonstrance would be useless.
Olivia sighed heavily.
“I do not know,” she said, looking from side to side with a troubled expression in her eyes. “I cannot tell—till I see him. I shall know then!”
“Oh, dear!” breathed Bessie. “I am so afraid; you are so weak still.”
“I am strong enough to walk to Wainford and back to help—him,” came the low but quick response. “But there is no need for that. Go down and order the brougham; say that I wish to go out for a drive—that I will have no one but you with me. No one need know where we are going. Afterward, I do not care who knows.”
Then, as Bessie still stood hesitating and trembling, she turned upon her almost fiercely.
“Did he stop to think of the consequences when you were in danger? Have you forgotten that?”
Bessie’s face went crimson, and she flung up her hands before it; then, her face quite pale again, she looked at Olivia with a strange, intense reproachfulness, and left the room.
At three o’clock Olivia, leaning on Bessie’s arm, went down the stairs. Notwithstanding her assertions, she felt very weak, and her limbs seemed to quiver and tremble. The brougham was at the door, and the squire stood ready to help her in, with a couple of thick wraps on his arm.
“Are you sure you are strong enough, dear?” he asked, anxiously. “And will you not let me come with you?”