'Come, my dear, there is nothing to fear. Take courage, you will not regret your visit I am sure.'
Then the door of the same room where Bryda had first seen the Squire opened and closed behind, and she found herself alone with Mr Bayfield.
But could it be he? There was scarcely a trace of the handsome, stalwart young man of thirty left in that pale, emaciated form lying on a couch before her.
'I cannot rise to greet you, madam,' were Mr Bayfield's first words. 'Come nearer, please; I have something to say to you, and my voice is weak.'
Then a long thin hand was outstretched to Bryda, and her fears seemed to vanish. She went up to the couch and said in low tones,—
'I am grieved, sir, to see you so—ill, and—'
The large wistful eyes fastened on Bryda's face had now nothing offensive in their gaze. There was the far-off look in them of one who had done with the world and all the world's sin and sorrow.
'Miss Palmer,' he said, 'I wished to see you to seek forgiveness. You told me on that day long ago I had no mercy; it was true. I had no mercy, and I deceived you cruelly.'
Then from a small pocket-book, worn with age and fastened with a ragged strap, Mr Bayfield took out a paper—two papers.
One, that which he had shown to the old farmer on the night of his first visit; the other dated only a few months before the old Squire's sudden death. He put both into Bryda's hands and said,—