"I think not; nay, I hope not," said Sir Philip. "As the French people have had the good sense to banish priests, I hope they will also have wisdom enough to keep all Jesuits, male and female, at a distance. Your cousin is a female Jesuist, depend upon it. It would not surprise me to that she is in actual correspondence with the Pope, or connected with a second Guy Fawkes for the blowing up of this household. Get rid of her, my lady."
"But how? Just now they can go neither to Estcourt Hall nor to Adelaide. Where am I to send them to?"
In a towering passion, and in a thundering voice, the baronet replied: "I don't care a d—n where they go to; but I can't bear the sight of them here."
Annie's heart sank. The window was open, and as her husband spoke she became aware that the ladies in question were seated in an alcove near, partially screened from view by the green boughs of the shrubs that surrounded it. They must have heard the conversation. At this moment they rose, passed the window, bowing as they passed to Annie. There was something of melancholy compassion in that salute; at least Annie thought so. She longed to run after them, to throw herself into her aunt's arms, and weep out the bitterness of her soul; but her husband's eye was upon her, and he was watching her emotions with no friendly feelings. She turned back into the library with him and endeavored to master her oppression. The time passed drearily away as she awaited their return from their walk; but in vain she waited, they came not; one hour, two hours, three hours; dinner was served and they came not. The meal was taken silently; each one was too much absorbed in thought to speak. A long evening was gone through, and at length when Sir Philip went out to speak to his farm bailiff, Annie wandered in sadness on to the lawn. It was a fitful night, the clouds were chasing each other through the atmosphere, here and there revealing a star, now and then disclosing the moon. A feeling of desolation came over her, her grief was too great for tears; but when she approached the deep haw-haw that bounded the garden to the south, she felt as if she could willingly lie down therein and die. "Was the water there deep enough to destroy life? What is life? Is it something we hold in common with cows, horses, dogs? That is easily destroyed! Is man only an animal? If so, I at least had better die, for what happiness can I expect with such a mate as I have? But animal life cannot be all! What is it makes us so sure of this? O Euphrasie! where are you? You could answer this; why are you so happy, why am I se wretched? If it is not poverty that makes unhappiness, what does make it? What has Euphrasie more than I have? She is a wanderer, homeless, penniless, yet I feel satisfied she is to be envied even now."
Strange that in her vexation and utter mortification, Annie felt no intense anxiety respecting the fate of her guests. She had a sort of belief that Euphrasie bore a charmed life, and that under any circumstances she was ever the happiest person in the circle in which she might be placed. She thought her aunt privileged in having such a companion.
The deep night came, and Sir Philip, uneasy at Annie's prolonged absence, went to seek her. She was still leaning over a rail close to the water's edge. "What are you doing there?" he said, but his tone was softer than usual, for his wife was trembling with emotion; and her eyes were filled with tears. He took one hand in his, and passed one arm round her waist, to support her and draw her from her position. "Are you ill, Annie?" he asked.
Instead of replying, Annie asked in a faltering voice: "What has become of them?"
"It matters not; it was a providence that made them hear they were not welcome. It saved us both some uneasiness. They will be taken care of, never fear. There is a sort of free-masonry among such people. Only don't let me see my wife, Lady Conway, make herself miserable about a couple of papists: it would be too absurd."
Two days after, toward the evening, a stranger came, a poor Irishman, with a cart; he brought a note to Annie. It was from Madame: she thanked Annie cordially and affectionately for her good wishes and kind attentions; pleaded that a sudden emergency had arisen which prevented her profiting longer from them; excused her informal leave-taking by the same necessity, and begged Annie would forward to her whatever she had left behind. Annie fairly cried with vexation; she questioned the man as to where the ladies were, but the man had seen no ladies. A gentleman, whose name he had forgotten, had given him the note and two keys, which he said would unlock two trunks, which were to be packed and sent back. That was all he knew. The gentleman would meet him at the same place, and receive the trunks from him. But he was sure the gentlemen did not live there; he was going further on. Annie could make out nothing more. She packed the trunks herself, and enclosed a fifty pound Bank of England note, with a deprecating letter in one of the boxes. It was all the money she had at that moment in hand.