“I dreamt there was blood upon him; but that—that was long ago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, yes; long ago,” she whispered hurriedly. “Go back, and tell no one your dream.”
Fortunately she had ordered a carriage very early, that she might drive to Deal in time to meet Miss Carlaw. She kept her veil down as she entered the inn and got away from it as quickly as possible, refusing anything to eat. She scarcely dared speak to any one lest she should betray her agitation. Safely in the carriage at last, she knew that she must pass almost within sight of the spot where the statue stood with the dead man lying at its foot; it seemed horrible to have to go away and leave him there—dead—to be found by strangers. And then, with another burst of tears, she remembered how he had smiled as he died, and how she had promised to keep all knowledge of it from the old woman. Humbled and broken and afraid, she clasped her hands before her face and prayed silently for strength to keep that promise to him at least. She was grateful to think, for the first time, when she reached Deal that her companion was blind and could not see her face. Miss Carlaw, guessing perhaps that her visit to the old place had awakened sorrowful memories, said but little to her and left her to herself when, after reaching Dover, they took the night boat for Calais.
And while most of the passengers were asleep ’Linda crept on deck and stole to the side of the vessel and dropped the heavy, old-fashioned pistol into the sea.
CHAPTER XXX.
AUNT CHARLOTTE ATTENDS A CELEBRATION.
“You have not yet told me why you returned so suddenly to England,” said ’Linda.
She was seated on a low stool beside Miss Charlotte Carlaw’s chair; her head was resting against the old woman’s knee. Miss Carlaw, leaning in her old attitude on her stick, had been silent for some time. The two women had returned only the day before, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, from the Continent.
“Well, there were several reasons, my child,” she said. “I’ve been growing older within these past few months—older not only in years but in my outlook on life, I think. You’ll laugh, perhaps, when I say it, but I’ve gone through many, many years of my life in a sort of wild hurry, striving to get out of it—out of every hour of it—the most that could be squeezed. If I had my time to come again, I think—no, I am quite sure—that I should linger a little by the roadside, as it were; perhaps in that way I should see more of it, and should understand more clearly the meaning of it all. The nearer we come to the finish of it, child, the more clearly do we understand that it is not for us to judge; not for us, in our petty fashion, to say what is right or what is wrong. Only at the end, when we go to Him who sent us here, carrying in our hands the poor little fruits of what we have done, can we know how sadly we have blundered, how much there is that we might have done better. Look at me, ’Linda; I started without eyes, but even that should not have blinded me to all the better things I passed by. And so, before it is too late, I want to do one little thing that I have left undone; I want in all humility to make some reparation to you.”