“Whatever is done, is done,” muttered she, as she broke open the cover. There were but two lines; they ran thus:—
“Holyhead, 12 o'clock.
“Have thought better of it. It would be absurd to meet him. I start for town at once, and shall be at Boulogne to-morrow.
“Dudley.”
She sat pondering over these words till the paper became blurred and blotted by her tears as they rolled heavily along her cheeks, and dropped with a distinct sound. She was not conscious that she wept. It was not grief that moved her; it was the blankness of despair,—the sense of hopelessness that comes over the heart when life no longer offers a plan or a project, but presents a weariful road to be travelled, uncheered and dreary.
Till she had read these lines it never occurred to her that such a line of action was possible. But now that she saw them there before her, her whole astonishment was that she had not anticipated this conduct on his part. “I might have guessed it; I might have been sure of it,” muttered she. “The interval was too long; there were twelve mortal hours for reflection. Cowards think acutely,—at least, they say that in their calculations they embrace more casualties than brave men. And so he has 'thought better of it,'—a strange phrase. 'Absurd to meet him!' but not absurd to run away. How oddly men reason when they are terrified! And so my great scheme has failed, all for want of a little courage, which I could have supplied, if called on; and now comes my hour of defeat, if not worse,—my hour of exposure. I am not brave enough to confront it. I must leave this; but where to go is the question. I suppose Boulogne, since it is there I shall join my husband;” and she laughed hysterically as she said it.
CHAPTER XXVI. A FAMILY PARTY
While the interview between Sir Brook and the Chief Baron lasted,—and it was a long time,—the anxiety of those below-stairs was great to know how matters were proceeding. Had the two old men, who differed so strongly in many respects, found out that there was that in each which could command the respect and esteem of the other, and had they gained that common ground where it was certain there were many things they would agree upon?
“I should say,” cried Beattie, “they have become excellent friends before this. The Chief reads men quickly, and Fossbrooke's nature is written in a fine bold hand, easy to read and impossible to mistake.”