Sidney grasped his hand with a firm, strong clasp, but said nothing. For the moment he was dumb; his pulses beat too strongly for him to speak in a natural tone. Disinherited! He who had not a penny of his own. George Martin attributed his silence and agitation to the indignation he must be feeling.
"Come home at once with me," he said, "and make it all right with Uncle John. It was a vile scandal, and just the thing to exasperate him. It's only giving up a few weeks of your holiday; and it's worth while, I tell you, Sid. He said he had it on good authority; but if you go back with me, he'll be satisfied."
"I don't know," answered Sidney, with some hesitation; "it's like owning I am afraid of being disinherited. Leave me to think it over; it is not a thing to be decided in a moment."
Yet he knew at the bottom of his heart that he had already decided. It seemed to him as if he had been saved from a fatal exposure by the drift of circumstances. But for Sophy's violent temper she would either have been with him when his cousin met him at Innsbruck, or George would have pursued his journey to the Ampezzo valley, and found them there. Then it would have been impossible to conceal the truth—the hateful truth—any longer. That would have been utter ruin for them both. He could do nothing to maintain a wife or, indeed, himself, if his uncle disinherited him. So far he had never earned a six-pence in his life. If he acknowledged Sophy just now, it would only be to bring her to destitution; or to make himself dependent upon her exertions.
He went back to his hotel, and wrote a long letter to his young wife, carefully worded, lest it should fall into wrong hands. He told her to make her way as directly as possible to England to her father's house; and to let him know immediately of her return there. She could reach it by tolerably easy railway journeys in about a week; and he carefully traced out her route, entering the moment of departure for each train she must take, and telling her at what hotels she must stay. It was now a week since he had left her, and he had no doubt she was on her way after him. It seemed to him as though he was taking an almost tender care for her safety and comfort, more than she deserved; and thought she ought to be very grateful to him for it. He urged the utmost prudence upon her in regard to their secret.
He left this letter with the landlord of the Goldne Sonne, doing so with considerable caution, very well concealed. It was addressed to S. Martin only, and might have been either for a man or a woman. If no person claimed it, it was to be forwarded to him intact at the end of three months, when he would send a handsome acknowledgment for it. But it would probably be asked for in the course of a few days; for Sidney reminded himself, with self-gratulation, that at both of the hotels he had quitted lately he had left instructions for Sophy; with a careful description of her appearance, that no wrong person should receive them.
These steps set his conscience at rest; and he returned to England with no heavier burden on his spirits than the dread of discovery, which must be borne as long as he was absolutely dependent upon his uncle's favor.
CHAPTER III.
A FORSAKEN CHILD.
Sophy finished her letter, the letter which was to be posted the next day. But before the morning came her child was born, and the young mother lay speechless and motionless, unconsciously floating down the silent sea of death. There was no one with her but Chiara, the working housekeeper of the inn; but there was no sign that the girl felt troubled or lonely. Chiara laid the baby across her chilling, heaving breast, and for a moment there flickered a smile about her pale lips, as she made a feeble effort to clasp her new-born babe in her arms. But these signs of life were gone in a moment like the passing of a fitful breeze; and her rough nurse, stooping down to look more closely at her white face, saw that the young foreigner was dead.