With strange, wondering eyes, the old lady looked at her niece, so pale and sadly changed; then she kissed her, as she said—
“My darling, what there is to forgive I forgive. We cannot all do as we ought, Edith—we are poor creatures at the best of times—but you are a good girl, Edith; and perhaps, after all, things have shaped themselves for the best.”
The old lady, all unconscious of the real state of things, was thinking of the collapse of the pet scheme she had had of making Walter Hetherington her son.
“Dear aunt,” said Edith, fondly, “it was impossible.”
“Yes, yes; I know that now, my dear: and perhaps, after all, as I said before, it is for the best. There, don’t think of it again to-night, dear, but go to bed and rest!”
So Edith went to her room; and while the rest of the household were falling into blessed, tranquil slumber, she sat, dressed as she was, upon the bed and stared vacantly before her. She did not weep; her time for that, had passed away, even as the greatness of her sorrow grew. Her face was fixed and determined; her heart seemed to-have hardened to stone. For days and days she had waited for she knew not what; but a vague kind of hopefulness, had taken possession of her heart, and she had allowed it to remain. Perhaps, during those terrible days of agonizing suspense, she had thought that she might have received some word or sign from him. It had been a vague, almost a hopeless, hope; nevertheless, it had been that one spark which had kept life within her. But now that hope was gone: he had made no sign. And with the knowledge that she could no longer conceal her shame, came also the assurance that the man for whose sake she had sinned, had pitilessly abandoned her.
Edith, sitting at home by the fire that day, had thought over all this, while her aunt had been at church listening to the vicar’s touching sermon; and, after having forced herself to accept and acknowledge the truth, she had finally decided what she must do. She had decided; it but remained for her to act. She had determined to leave her home that night; to walk whither her wandering footsteps might lead her, and leave no trace behind.
So, having reached her room, she sat until the house was quiet; then she rose, and began to make her preparations for departure. She went to a drawer, and took from it what money still remained there—some bank-notes and gold—and stitched it firmly in a fold of her dress; then she put on her hat and warm winter cloak, and stood ready.
The village clocks were striking twelve.
She opened her door and listened. All was still; so she passed quietly onwards, after securely locking her bedroom door—passed noiselessly down the stairs, out of the house, and stood in, the darkness alone.