Natalie and her aunt looked at each other across the bed on which Sir Joseph lay.  He had fallen into a kind of doze; no enlightenment could come to them from him.  They could only ask each other, with beating hearts and baffled minds, what Richard’s conduct meant—­they could only feel instinctively that some dreadful discovery was hanging over them.  The aunt was the calmer of the two—­there was no secret weighing heavily on her conscience. She could feel the consolations of religion.  “Our dear one is spared to us, my love,” said the old lady, gently.  “God has been good to us.  We are in his hands.  If we know that, we know enough.”

As she spoke there was a loud ring at the doorbell.  The women-servants crowded into the bedroom in alarm.  Strong in numbers, and encouraged by Natalie—­who roused herself and led the way—­they confronted the risk of opening the window and of venturing out on the balcony which extended along that side of the house.  A man was dimly visible below.  He called to them in thick, unsteady accents.  The servants recognized him:  he was the telegraphic messenger from the railway.  They went down to speak to him—­and returned with a telegram which had been pushed in under the door.  The distance from the station was considerable; the messenger had been “keeping Christmas” in more than one beer-shop on his way to the house; and the delivery of the telegram had been delayed for some hours.  It was addressed to Natalie.  She opened it—­looked at it—­dropped it—­and stood speechless; her lips parted in horror, her eyes staring vacantly straight before her.

Miss Lavinia took the telegram from the floor, and read these lines: 

“Lady Winwood, Hertford Street, London.  To Natalie Graybrooke, Church Meadows, Baxdale, Somersetshire.  Dreadful news.  R. T. has discovered your marriage to Launce.  The truth has been kept from me till to-day (24th).  Instant flight with your husband is your only chance.  I would have communicated with Launce, but I do not know his address.  You will receive this, I hope and believe, before R. T. can return to Somersetshire.  Telegraph back, I entreat you, to say that you are safe.  I shall follow my message if I do not hear from you in reasonable time.”

Miss Lavinia lifted her gray head, and looked at her niece.  “Is this true?” she said—­and pointed to the venerable face laid back, white, on the white pillow of the bed.  Natalie sank forward as her eyes met the eyes of her aunt.  Miss Lavinia saved her from falling insensible on the floor.

* * * * * * * * *

The confession had been made.  The words of penitence and the words of pardon had been spoken.  The peaceful face of the father still lay hushed in rest.  One by one the minutes succeeded each other uneventfully in the deep tranquillity of the night.  It was almost a relief when the silence was disturbed once more by another sound outside the house.  A pebble was thrown up at the window, and a voice called out cautiously, “Miss Lavinia!”