It was Lady Burdenshaw, but alone. She came in and drew near his sofa with a serious countenance.
“Great God!” he cried, starting up from his reclining position; “is anything the matter? An accident in the hunting field! Is she hurt?”
“No, my poor fellow. She’s not hurt. It would take a great deal to hurt her. She’s too hard. But she has done her best to hurt you.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has gone off with that audacious scamp.”
“Major Swanwick?”
“Yes. Did you suspect anything?”
“I thought there was an understanding between them.”
“They went off together early this morning; walked five miles to the station, leaving their luggage to be looked after by the Major’s servant, who had received his instructions and who got everything packed and off by the one o’clock train for London. I got this telegram late in the afternoon from Salisbury.”
She handed him a telegram, which he read slowly, word by word, and then he slowly folded it and restored it to his visitor, in heart-stricken silence.