The muffled tones were even less clear than usual, but Barbara gave a sigh, almost a sob, of relief. "You must insist on my coming back, at once,—at once, Marraine—or they will want to keep me! Some people are coming over to lunch to-morrow, and Miss Berwick will wish me to be there."
"Why go back at all?"
"I must go back. Someone is waiting for me outside." Madame Sampiero's eyelids flickered—"Oh, no, no! Marraine, not Mr. Berwick, but a Mr. O'Flaherty. Besides, they would all be so surprised if I were not to come back now. Send for me this afternoon."
She bent over and kissed her god-mother's hands. "How nice it is to be home again!" and her voice trembled, "What, darling Marraine? Was Lord Bosworth kind? Yes, indeed—more than good and kind! I have been very happy—very, very happy!" and then she turned away to hide the tears rushing to her eyes.
While waiting for Mrs. Rebell, Daniel O'Flaherty looked with great interest at the splendid old house before which he was pacing up and down. This, then, was Chancton Priory, the place belonging to the woman who some said had made, and others said had marred, Lord Bosworth's life.
The story had been widely known and discussed. Madame Sampiero had made a desperate and an unsuccessful effort to break her marriage to the Corsican adventurer whom she had married in a moment of headstrong, girlish folly; and the world, hers and Lord Bosworth's, had been loud in its sympathy. But for the fact that the ceremony had been solemnised according to French law, she would easily have obtained release.
For a while, all had gone fairly well. Each lived his and her own life; Madame Sampiero had acted as hostess to Lord Bosworth's friends, both at Chancton, and in her London house, for she was a wealthy woman, and all, save the very strait-laced, had condoned a situation which permitted the exercise of tolerant charity.
Then had come the sudden appearance on the scene of a child, of the little Julia concerning whose parentage scarcely any mystery was made, and the consequent withdrawal of that feminine countenance and support without which social life and influence are impossible in such a country as England.
O'Flaherty looked up at the mullioned windows sunk back in the grey stone; behind which of them lay the paralysed woman, now bereft of lover, of child, of the company of friends, of everything which made life worth living to such as she? Septimus Daman had talked of Madame Sampiero again and again during the last few days, and had apparently rejoiced in the thought that Mrs. Rebell was so devoted to the mistress of Chancton Priory. What a strange life the two women must lead here! The barrister looked round him consideringly. November is the sad month of our country year. Even the great cedars added to the stately melancholy of the deserted lawns, and leafless beeches.