She bowed her head.
“At least, for the present,” she answered. “For all our sakes it will be the best so. Never to see him more, and to hide his sin from the world; to live and die obscurely—here, if possible—if not, then in some other quiet place where the story may never be known. It is not for myself, father, I ask this, but for the child in my arms. O God! if it should grow up to hate its parents!” (What an agony this thought caused her!) “It must never know—never know.”
“Perhaps this will be the best; though, for my part, I own my first impulse was to proclaim aloud, as from the housetops, the infamous cruelty of this man!”
“No, no, father!” and she pressed his hand fondly, “vengeance is not for us, but forgiveness; and try—try as I do—to think he has erred through a cruel chance, rather than from premeditation and design.”
But she saw that it was useless to urge this plea at present. Her father’s brow was lowered, and his hands clenched with an involuntary anger.
“Do they know in Grilling Abbots that I am here?” she asked hastily, to change the turn the conversation was taking.
“It was not possible to keep that a secret long, but I think I can manage to keep our friends at bay for a little while, at all events until you are more composed—until we have decided definitively as to the future.” And the doctor smiled as he added, “I contrived to put Mrs. Stephen to rout this afternoon. It seemed she had heard of your arrival, and was coming down post-haste to make inquiries; but I made her turn her ponies’ heads quickly. I said that you had come down because of the illness of the baby—that its disorder, however, was not serious, though it might be infectious. Her face changed, she sent all sorts of kind messages, but she thought of the safety of her own little ones at home and hurried off. The report will spread, and we can keep visitors at a distance by such means for some time to come.”
Violet thanked him with her eyes.
“It grows dark,” she said with some anxiety, “surely Madge will not be long now.”
“She should have been back before this,” and Mr. Fuller looked frowningly at his watch: “she could have had no difficulty in getting a fly at Mowle. I am sorry I let her go. I ought to have gone myself.”
“No, father,” Violet urged eagerly, “you were too angry—too excited. In your frame of mind no good could have resulted from your meeting him. It was better for Madge to go. Besides, it was her own proposal, and it was important to find occupation for her. The poor darling’s sorrow was so great it would have preyed upon her mind else. It will be a satisfaction to her always to think she undertook this journey; it will give her courage and self-confidence; and then, she may not have seen him after all.”
“If he should insult her?” Mr. Fuller suggested angrily.
“He will not—be sure he will not.”
“He is capable of anything; he has proved that sufficiently, I think. What good can come of his seeing Madge? Can he undo the past?”
Violet answered very quietly and sadly.
“No; little good can come of it, perhaps. I know it is hoping against hope; yet it will be something to learn from himself of the strange past: at least he may have excuses to offer.”
“He will lie, Violet, there is no doubt of that. There can be no excuses in the truth.”
“We have heard him accused—”
“And the accusation has been only too fully proved.”
“Still, father, he should be heard; he may have some answer to give.”
“It is not possible, Violet.”
“There may be reason for our pity—our forgiveness. Surely in every human error there is reason for these. Ah! the sound of wheels! Madge returns.”
There was the noise as of a carriage approaching along the road from Mowle.
“Be calm, dearest; pray compose yourself. I will go out and see.”
And Mr. Fuller left the room.
A few minutes, and Violet started up suddenly. There was a noise as of some one tapping at the window.
“How nervous I grow,” she said, in a frightened voice: “it is only a branch blown against the panes.”
But the noise was repeated. She went to the window: looking out she recognised a figure standing in the garden.
“Madge!” she cried, eagerly; and she unlocked the sash and threw it open. “Madge!—my sister!”
They were in each other’s arms instantly.
“How tired you must be; how cold your face is! My poor child, come to the fire.”
Even at such a moment she could think first of her sister.
“Dearest Vi, be brave, be strong, there’s my good Vi.” Madge stopped as though in fear of the effect of what she was about to say; then she went on in a different tone upon another subject. “We have been such a long time coming from Mowle—there was such a poor horse in the fly.” She peered at Violet: was she composed enough yet to hear what was to be told? How pale—how trembling she was!
“Why did you come to the window, Madge?” said Violet, in a strange voice.
“Because—” What was she to say? Rather frightened, she glanced over her shoulder.
“He came with you?” Violet demanded, with a scream.
“Be calm, my sister.”
“He is there?” and she pointed to the garden.
“My dearest sister—”
“Quick—quick—tell me. It is true?”
Madge knew to what the question referred, with what wild hope Violet was trembling.
“Yes, my poor Violet, it is true! But he believed her dead; he did not—could not, know the wrong he did you. It was accident, not design—”
“O, Madge, why did you bring him here? How wrong—how cruel! O, God help me! I must not—dare not see him.” She reeled, covering her face with her hands—but for Madge’s aid she would have fallen.
