He arose and went out, leaving his breakfast untouched. Lady Wynde sipped her coffee leisurely, and ate her breakfast with untroubled appetite. Then she proceeded to her own private sitting-room and took her place at one of the windows, watching the whirling snow-flakes of the February storm.
Sir Harold found her here when he came in, dressed for his journey. He had ordered a carriage, which was ready. His travelling bag was packed, and had been taken below. He had come in to say good-bye to his wife.
“What a great change a single hour has wrought in our lives!” he said, as he came up to Lady Wynde and put his arms around her. “Octavia, my darling, it wrings my heart to leave you. Write to me by every post. I shall remain with my boy until all is over. Tell me all the home news. You will have Neva home at Easter, and love her for my sake! She will be our only child soon!”
He embraced his wife with passionate affection, and murmured words of anguished farewell. He tore himself from her, but at the door he turned back, and spoke to her with a solemnity she had never seen in him before.
“Octavia,” he said, “at this moment a strange presentiment comes over me—a sudden horror—a chill as of death! Perhaps I am to die out there in India! If—if anything happens to me, Octavia, promise me to be good to my Neva.”
“It is not necessary to promise,” said Lady Wynde, “but to please you, I promise!”
Sir Harold’s keen blue eyes, full of anguish, rested in a long steady gaze upon that false handsome face, and the solemnity of his countenance increased.
“You will be Neva’s guardian, if I die,” he said, in a broken voice. “I trust you absolutely. God do unto you, Octavia, as you do unto my orphan child!”
How those words rang in the ears of Lady Wynde long afterward!
Sir Harold gave her a last embrace, and dashed down the stairs and sprang into the carriage. Lady Wynde watched him with tearless eyes as he drove down the avenue.