“I agreed to do so; but, before I settled down, I felt I must see you once more, and hear how Lally was. So I made my way to the Hollow, where learning from Ned that she was not expected to live, I travelled straight on to London,—and you know the rest. I will go back to my friends very shortly now. I have written to tell them the reason why I could not return before.”
“But why not stay in London, Bessie?” inquired Mrs. Dudley.
“Because I am poor,” was the reply, “and I must now work for myself and my child; because I shall be safe there from any fear of meeting him,—because I have nothing to keep me in London, excepting you; and you, Heather—will let me write to you occasionally, will you not?”
“That was not the way in which you intended to finish your sentence,” remarked Heather, with a smile.
“No,” Bessie answered, frankly, “it was not.”
“You were going to say you could not come to see me quite safely, because you thought I knew something of the person who has brought you to this, my child.”
“Don’t, Heather—don’t!” Bessie pleaded.
“I am to ask no questions, then? I am not to inquire his name; but there is one thing I may do, love, and that is tell you what his cousin would not, that if it be the individual I suspect, he is one of the most miserable men on earth.”
“And do you think he really loved me?”
“How should I be able to tell that?” Heather answered; “and you must talk of love no more in connection with him, Bessie; for love becomes sin, when it is impossible for it to produce other fruits than shame and sorrow.”