With those parting words, Mr. MacGlue left us to ourselves.
“Is it really true?” I said to my mother. “Has she left the inn, without waiting to see me?”
“Nobody could stop her, George,” my mother answered. “The lady left the inn this morning by the coach for Edinburgh.”
I was bitterly disappointed. Yes: “bitterly” is the word—though she was a stranger to me.
“Did you see her yourself?” I asked.
“I saw her for a few minutes, my dear, on my way up to your room.”
“What did she say?”
“She begged me to make her excuses to you. She said, ‘Tell Mr. Germaine that my situation is dreadful; no human creature can help me. I must go away. My old life is as much at an end as if your son had left me to drown in the river. I must find a new life for myself, in a new place. Ask Mr. Germaine to forgive me for going away without thanking him. I daren’t wait! I may be followed and found out. There is a person whom I am determined never to see again—never! never! never! Good-by; and try to forgive me!’ She hid her face in her hands, and said no more. I tried to win her confidence; it was not to be done; I was compelled to leave her. There is some dreadful calamity, George, in that wretched woman’s life. And such an interesting creature, too! It was impossible not to pity her, whether she deserved it or not. Everything about her is a mystery, my dear. She speaks English without the slightest foreign accent, and yet she has a foreign name.”
“Did she give you her name?”
“No, and I was afraid to ask her to give it. But the landlady here is not a very scrupulous person. She told me she looked at the poor creature’s linen while it was drying by the fire. The name marked on it was, ‘Van Brandt.’”