“She is my kindest, best friend; she delights in your sister, and would receive her as if she really stood in that relationship to herself.”
“You have my best wishes,” said Hilary, holding out her hand with tears in her eyes.
He thanked her warmly.
“James behaved very ill,” said he, presently; “though I hope to be the gainer, I can not excuse him. He was very, very wrong, one way or other. He was either too much or too little in earnest. Young as she was, she was not such a child as to excuse his devotion or his fickleness—and it has hurt his character too.”
“Please don’t. I would rather not talk of it now,” said Hilary, gently.
“I beg your pardon; do you know we are almost at the terminus?”
“Yes;” she was looking very white, and seemed incapable of saying more.
In a minute the train stopped—in a very few more the two were in a fly, and driving hastily toward Southsea. She could not speak, she could hardly breathe, as she saw walls and houses fly past them; her heart seemed struggling to rush on faster, faster to that unknown spot in which her husband waited for her.
They reached the house, they stopped, the door opened,
Maurice appeared; Hilary had hardly time to see his expression, as he hurried to lift her from the carriage and support her inside the house. He held her in his arms, her face was hidden on his shoulder, as she whispered, between gasping sobs: “Where is he?”