After a few minutes she took up his letter and read it over for the fourth time.  Its ruthless implacability seemed to give her the strength necessary to obey its behests.  As if fearing another failure of her resolution, she wrote at once: 

     “Brudenell Hall, December 30, 18—­

“Mr. Brudenell:  Your letter has relieved me from an embarrassing position.  I beg your pardon for having been for so long a period an unconscious usurper of your premises.  I had mistaken this place for my husband’s house and my proper home.  My mistake, however, has not extended to the appropriation of the revenues of the estate.  You will find every dollar of those placed to your credit in the Planters’ Bank of Baymouth.  My mistake has been limited to the occupancy of the house.  For that wrong I shall make what reparation remains in my power.  I shall leave this place this Friday evening; see your solicitors on Monday; place in their hands a sum equivalent to the full value of Brudenell Hall, as a compensation to you for my long use of the house; and then sign whatever documents may be necessary to renounce all claim upon yourself and your estate, and to free you forever from

     “Berenice, Countess of Hurstmonceux.”

She finished the letter and threw down the pen.  What it had cost her to write thus, only her own loving and outraged woman’s heart knew.

By the time she had sealed her letter Phoebe entered to say that the dinner was served—­that solitary meal at which she had sat down, heart-broken, for so many weary years.

She answered, “Very well,” but never stirred from her seat.

Phoebe fidgeted about the room for a while, and then, with the freedom of a favorite attendant, she came to the side of the countess and, smiling archly, said: 

“My lady.”

“Well, Phoebe?”

“People needn’t starve, need they, because they are going back to their ’ain countrie’?”

Lady Hurstmonceux smiled faintly, roused herself, and went down to dinner.

On her return to her room she found her maid locking the last trunks.

“Is everything packed, Phoebe?”

“Except the dress you have on, my lady; and I can lay that on the top of this trunk after you put on your traveling dress.”

“And you are glad we are going home, my girl?”

“Oh, my lady, I feel as if I could just spread out my arms and fly for joy.”

“Then I am, also, for your sake.  What time is it now?”

“Five o’clock, my lady.”

“Three hours yet.  Tell Mrs. Spicer to come here.”

Phoebe locked the trunk she had under her hand and went out to obey.  When Mrs. Spicer came in she was startled by the intelligence that her lady was going away immediately, and that the house was to be shut up until the arrival of Mr. Brudenell or his agents, who would arrange for its future disposition.

When Lady Hurstmonceux had finished these instructions she placed a liberal sum of money in the housekeeper’s hands, with orders to divide it among the house-servants.