When Mrs. Farnum and her daughter took leave of Sir William and his bride, the baronet simply bowed to them without offering his hand, saying, with the least possible but unmistakable emphasis:
“Good-by, Mrs. Farnum; adieu, Lady Royalston.” And both knew that all the past had been explained, and they had received their final congé.
Lady Royalston’s prediction had been verified.
When the last guest had departed, Sir William turned to his sister, his face stern and cold.
“Miriam,” he said, in a tone that made her shiver, “at last I have found my Virgie, my mountain maid whom I have loved all my life long. But what of the lost years of the past?—the sorrow, the loneliness, and misunderstanding? What of the hatred and treachery that produced it all?”
Every word fell upon Lady Linton’s heart as if it had been a blow from a hammer.
She made a gesture of despair. She could not speak; she felt that she should go mad unless she could soon get away to the quiet of her room and be released from that fearful constraint which she had imposed upon herself for so many hours.
Lady Heath read something of her suffering in that wild gesture, and she laid her lips against her husband’s ear, whispering:
“Dear Will, we can afford to be generous out of the abundance of our happiness.”
Sir William’s face melted into infinite tenderness at her plea.