One fear was constantly before her mind, and that was that he might seek a personal interview with her again. She dared not trust herself to this, instinctively as she longed for it. It was, therefore, with positive terror in her breast that she heard one morning from Nora that Lord Hurdly was in the house, having come down by train from London.
“I cannot see him—I will not!” she cried, in an impassioned protest, which only Nora could have seen her portray.
“He did not ask to see you,” said Nora. “I met him in the hall, and he told me to say to you that he required some papers which were in the library, and that he would, with your permission, like the use of the room for a few hours. He told me to say that he had had luncheon, and would not disturb you in any way.”
At these words Bettina felt a sinking of the heart, which was her first consciousness of the sudden hope she had been entertaining. This made her reproach herself angrily for such weakness and want of pride, and with this feeling in her heart, she said, abruptly,
“There is no answer to Lord Hurdly’s message.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Nora, hesitatingly, “but I am quite sure he is expecting an answer.”
“I say there is no answer,” Bettina repeated, with a sudden sternness. “Lord Hurdly is in his own house. He can come and go as he chooses. His asking permission of me is a mere farce.”
Nora ventured to say no more, and withdrew in silence, leaving her mistress alone with the consciousness that Horace was in the very house with her, and that at any moment she might, if she chose, go to him and tell him all the truth.
And why did she not? That old feeling between them was quite dead. She had a right to clear herself from a condemnation which she did not deserve—a right, at least, to make known the palliating circumstances in the case. In any other conceivable instance she would not have hesitated to do so. What was it, then, which made it so impossible in this instance?