“I wanted you to know about it, that is all,” said Henriette. “Also, I should like to say that though Hubert does not feel that he can ask you to return to the Red House, after what has happened—he cannot risk your refusing—yet I take it on myself to tell you, that he would only be too glad if you would go back.”
“Thank you, I understand.”
Next morning, Henriette came with a letter in her hand.
“Bad news!” Hadria exclaimed.
The letter announced the failure of the Company. It was the final blow. Dunaghee would have to be given up. Mrs. Fullerton’s settlement was all that she and her husband would now have to live upon.
Hadria sat gazing at the letter, with a dazed expression. Almost before the full significance of the calamity had been realized, a telegram arrived, announcing that Mrs. Fullerton had fallen dangerously ill.
The rest of that day was spent in packing, writing notes, settling accounts, and preparing for departure.
“When—how are you going?” cried Madame Vauchelet, in dismay.
“By the night boat, by the night boat,” Hadria replied hurriedly, as if the hurry of her speech would quicken her arrival in England.
The great arches of the station which had appealed to her imagination, at the moment of arrival, swept upward, hard and grey, in the callous blue light. Hadria breathed deep. Was she the same person who had arrived that night, with every nerve thrilled with hope and resolve? Ah! there had been so much to learn, and the time had been so short. Starting with her present additional experience, she could have managed so much better. But of what use to think of that? How different the homeward journey from the intoxicating outward flight, in the heyday of the spring!