He threw down his hat on the table, giving emphasis to what he said.
“I have brought you some news. I don’t know if you will like it or not, or if it will be a surprise. The Trevanions are after you.”
The smile faded away from her face, but seemed to linger pathetically in her eyes as she looked at him and repeated, “After me!” with a start.
“Yes. Of course all those visits and apparitions couldn’t be without effect. You must have known that; and you can’t say I did not warn you. They are moving heaven and earth—”
“How can they do that?” she asked; and then, “You reproach me justly, Edmund; not so much as I reproach myself. I was made to do it, and frighten—my poor children.”
“More than that,” he said, as if he took a pleasure in adding color to the picture; “the little girl has gone all wrong in her head. She walks in her sleep and says she is looking for her mother.”
The tears sprang to Mrs. Trevanion’s eyes. “Oh, Edmund!” she said, “you wring my heart; and yet it is sweet! My little girl! she does not forget me!”
“Children don’t forget,” he said gloomily. “I didn’t. I cried for you often enough, but you never came to me.”
She gave him once more a piteous look, to which the tears in her eyes added pathos. “Not—till it was too late,” she said.
“Not—till you were obliged; till you had no one else to go to,” said he. “And you have not done very much for me since—nothing that you could help. Look here! You can make up for that now, if you like; there’s every opportunity now.”