We shall soon see the result of their compact.
It was autumn now, the fields were no longer yellow with billows of golden grain, as the breeze swept over the uplands; the white cups of the water-lilies had disappeared from pool and pond; the beeches changed their hue from green to russet, and the oak leaves were turning red; the evening sun had sunk beyond the waters of the bay, and Clara, seated alone, in the recess of a window, with an unread book in her lap, and her eyes fixed dreamily on the deepening shadows of the land and sea, felt more than usually depressed, when she was startled by a servant announcing "Mrs. Hampton," and a girl of somewhat attractive appearance, though rather flippant and nervous in manner, and somewhat shabbily clad, was ushered in.
Clara's first thought was of Rookleigh's mother, but the years of the visitor showed she was mistaken.
"You gave the name of Hampton?" said Clara, inquiringly, as her visitor remained silent.
"Yes, Ma'am—yes, Miss—Mrs. Derval Hampton, I am."
"You—you?" exclaimed Clara, startled and bewildered; "I do not understand."
"But you soon will," replied the girl, affecting to sob; "if I might take a seat, Miss—I am weary and faint and ill, and very sick at heart, too."
Clara trembled very much, though unaware of what all this was to lead to, but pointed to a chair, on the extreme edge of which the visitor seated herself, and seemed very far from being at ease. She was a little awed by her surroundings; then came an emotion of envy and anger at Clara for her perfect costume and beauty, her superior position and supreme purity of aspect, manner, and character; but no emotion of compunction for the pain she was about to inflict, or of shame for the deliberate falsehood she was about to tell, came to the soul of Miss Sally Trix.
"And what may your business be with me?" asked Clara.
"Only to know, Miss, if you have heard of late from my husband, as he has ceased to write to me?"