"Why should I—now?" But a moment later she changed her mind, "Yes, of course I will; Mr. Boringdon may have sent some message to my god-mother which ought to be seen to at once——" She opened the note, glanced through it, then put it down on the ledge of the prie-dieu.
Berwick had turned away while she read Boringdon's note, but now he was again staring at her with those strange, appealing eyes which seemed to shine in the dim light.
Reluctantly, as if in spite of herself, Barbara stretched out her hand and took up the other letter. Yes, it was, as she thought, from Andrew Johnstone—a bare word of kindly acknowledgment for the return of the fifty pounds which he had lent her.
She looked round, still holding the letter in her hand, but they were far from the fire—
Berwick's face became set. Ah! no, that should not be.
"Mrs. Rebell—?"
He had not called her so, to herself, since the drive back from Halnakeham Castle, and she had not noticed his avoidance of her name; but now, the formal mode of address fell strangely on her ears.
"Yes?"
"May I read these two letters?" He added, almost inaudibly, "You cannot think more ill of me than I do of myself."
Barbara suddenly felt as if she were taking part in an unreal scene, a dream colloquy, and yet she knew this was no dream. What had happened, what evil magic had so transformed her friend? That maternal instinct which slumbers lightly in the depths of every woman's heart, woke into life; she did not stay to diagnose the disease of which this strange request was a symptom: "Do read them," she said, and tried to speak indifferently, "I do not think ill of you—far from it, as Doctor McKirdy would say."