The Countess spoke like her former self in those past days before that cloud of sorrow fell upon Barton Hall; in those past days when she was the bailiff’s daughter and the sisterly companion of her whom she had since supplanted in fortune and position.
The tears came into Phœbe’s eyes again, and the two women embraced each other tenderly.
“Bless you, my own dear friend,” said the Countess, “believe me, I will make reparation for all my unkindness to you. There dear, do not reply—kiss me again and leave me—it is better I should be alone a little while.”
Alone, the Countess fell upon her knees, and prayed with passionate fervency—prayed as she had not prayed since that change came over her on that never-to-be-forgotten day when she learnt of his departure—prayed as she had not prayed since that scheme of ambition leaped into her mind at the appearance of that carriage with the coronet on the panel.
She rose with a calm expression upon her face, refreshed by the outpouring of her supplications, and determined to do her duty in the high station to which she had risen, and towards her husband.
Unlocking a small dressing-case which stood near his lordship’s latest present, she took out an inner drawer which was curiously concealed. Her hand trembled slightly as she withdrew the contents—a letter. It was his letter (if it might be called a letter)—the only memento of him which she possessed except in memory. There were only three lines upon it, and these were written on the day following that day when they had walked together in Barton Hall gardens.
“Dearest—I shall be at Barton Hall at four o’clock to-morrow. Do not let me go away without seeing you. L. H.” This was all the note contained. For long days and weeks and months afterwards she had treasured up that poor little scrap of paper—worn it in her bosom, wept over it, kissed it, and cherished the memory of that hour of happiness which followed it.
For a moment she held it in her hand hesitatingly. She felt that it was the only link between the present and the past. Lighting a vesta, she held the paper in the flame until it was consumed, and then she stamped her little satin-slippered foot upon the embers. The flame burnt her fingers before it went out, as if there were venom in the perjured words that the fire was consuming. But this was nothing to the fire which had seared her heart long since, burning into it those serpent words that had looked so fair only to sting the deeper. But it was over at last, and now she was Countess of Verner.
“My lady” rang for her maid, and prepared to dress for the bridal journey. Whilst her robes were being removed she glanced round the room which had been furnished with so much magnificence for her reception, and then she thought, with a grateful smile, of the homage which her husband had paid her in all things.
The maid being asked some simple question, told her how the health of the bridesmaids had been proposed, and how her ladyship’s handsome brother had made a beautiful speech in reply. This she thought would please her ladyship very much indeed; but it only excited uncomfortable thoughts in her ladyship’s mind—a vague kind of danger seemed to threaten her through Richard Tallant.