“You have been very kind to me and to my sister,” she said—“kind when we were both friendless. I shall remember you gratefully, as long as I live to remember anyone. Goodbye—and God bless you!”
She spoke those words with a tone and a look which brought the tears into my eyes—she spoke them as if she was bidding me farewell forever.
“Goodbye, my lady,” I said, putting her into the carriage, and trying to cheer her; “goodbye, for the present only; goodbye, with my best and kindest wishes for happier times.”
She shook her head, and shuddered as she settled herself in the carriage. The guard closed the door. “Do you believe in dreams?” she whispered to me at the window. “ My dreams, last night, were dreams I have never had before. The terror of them is hanging over me still.” The whistle sounded before I could answer, and the train moved. Her pale quiet face looked at me for the last time—looked sorrowfully and solemnly from the window. She waved her hand, and I saw her no more.
Towards five o’clock on the afternoon of that same day, having a little time to myself in the midst of the household duties which now pressed upon me, I sat down alone in my own room, to try and compose my mind with the volume of my husband’s sermons. For the first time in my life I found my attention wandering over those pious and cheering words. Concluding that Lady Glyde’s departure must have disturbed me far more seriously than I had myself supposed, I put the book aside, and went out to take a turn in the garden. Sir Percival had not yet returned, to my knowledge, so I could feel no hesitation about showing myself in the grounds.
On turning the corner of the house, and gaining a view of the garden, I was startled by seeing a stranger walking in it. The stranger was a woman—she was lounging along the path with her back to me, and was gathering the flowers.