[CHAPTER XLI.]
Into that splendid home in New York where the Desmonds had just arrived from Europe, that terrible telegram came like a thunder-clap. Bertram Chesleigh's repentant soul reeled in agony before it.
"I am justly punished for my cowardly desertion of my darling," he groaned to his sister, to whom he had confided his sorrowful secret. "But, oh, God! how terribly I have suffered for the weakness and folly of an hour!"
Edith, whose heart had been strangely changed and softened since her reconciliation with her husband, wept with him over the dreadful news.
"Bertram, we must go to her," she said. "In death, if not in life, we must lift the shadow from the poor girl's memory. Elinor Glenalvan is going home to-day. Shall we accompany her?"
"Yes; but do not tell her why we go. She hated my poor, little Golden," he answered, sighing heavily.
Elinor wondered secretly over their going, but rejoiced also. She had gone abroad with them, had had a most delightful time, and she sighed to think that the end had come at last.
But one thing grieved her most of all. All her arts and her beauty, added to Mrs. Desmond's influence, had failed to win Bertram Chesleigh.
She almost hated him when she thought of going home to hear her mother's lamentations over her failure, and her sister's taunts.
Her spirits rose at the welcome news that he was going south with her.