easier, because it would be nearer the truth. And at such moments she longed to speak, to beg him to utter his mind, to go with her once for all into the depths of the subject they continued to avoid. But at the last her heart always failed her: she could not face the thought of losing him, of hearing him speak estranging words to her.
They had been at Hanaford for about ten days when, one morning at breakfast, Amherst uttered a sudden exclamation over a letter he was reading.
“What is it?” she asked in a tremor.
He had grown very pale, and was pushing the hair from his forehead with the gesture habitual to him in moments of painful indecision.
“What is it ?” Justine repeated, her fear growing.
“Nothing” he began, thrusting the letter under the pile of envelopes by his plate; but she continued to look at him anxiously, till she drew his eyes to hers.
“Mr. Langhope writes that they’ve appointed Wyant to Saint Christopher’s,” he said abruptly.
“Oh, the letter—we forgot the letter!” she cried.
“Yes—we forgot the letter.”
“But how dare he?”
Amherst said nothing, but the long silence between them seemed full of ironic answers, till she brought out, hardly above her breath: “What shall you do?”
[ 535 ]
