So in a few minutes they were driving together to Guilford Square, and Blanche was transplanted from her miserable loneliness into the heart of one of the happiest homes in the country. Leaving her in the study, Charles Osmond went in search of Swanhild.
“It is all right,” he said, handing her a little note in Blanche’s writing; and while the child eagerly read it he turned to his daughter-in-law.
“Will you tell them to get the spare room ready, Erica, dear?” he said. “I have persuaded Lady Romiaux to stay with us for a little while.”
Swanhild caught the words, and longed to ask to see Blanche, but she remembered that Sigrid would not like it; and then, with a sudden recollection that the afternoon was almost over, and that she must go home, she thanked Charles Osmond, reluctantly parted with the baby, kissed old Mrs. Osmond and Erica, who made her promise to come and see them again, and hurried back to the model lodgings.
Her happiness and relief, and the pleasurable excitement of having learned to know a new and delightful family, were slightly clouded by the uncomfortable thought of the confession that lay before her. What would Frithiof and Sigrid say to her? And how should she put into words the story of what she more and more felt to have been a wrong and foolish, and very childish scheme of help?
“Oh, how I wish it were over!” she thought, to herself, as she marched on to her disagreeable work like a little Trojan. Big Ben was striking five as she crossed the court-yard. She had been away from home more than two hours. She hurried on to the porter’s office, and asked breathlessly for the key.
“Mr. Falck took it ten minutes ago,” said the man.
And Swanhild turned away with a sigh and a little shiver, and began very slowly to mount the stone stairs.
“Oh! what will he say to me?” she thought, as she clasped Blanche’s note fast in her little cold hands.