“Mother,” he said, “this affair worries me to death.  I cannot shake off the thoughts of it.”

“Leave it to me, I’ll arrange it satisfactorily.”

“Could we not leave to-night?  I should not be so haunted by this annoyance in another place.  I dread seeing her again, because I fear a scene; and yet I believe I ought to see her in order to explain.”

“You must not think of such a thing, Henry,” said she, alarmed at the very idea.

“Sooner than that, we will leave in half-an-hour, and try to get to Pen tre Voelas to-night.  It is not yet three, and the evenings are very long.  Simpson should stay and finish the packing; she could go straight to London and meet us there.  Macdonald and nurse could go with us.  Could you bear twenty miles, do you think?”

Anything to get rid of his uneasiness.  He felt that he was not behaving as he should do to Ruth, though the really right never entered his head.  But it would extricate him from his present dilemma, and save him many lectures; he knew that his mother, always liberal where money was concerned, would “do the thing handsomely”; and it would always be easy to write and give Ruth what explanation he felt inclined, in a day or two; so he consented, and soon lost some of his uneasiness in watching the bustle of the preparation for their departure.  All this time Ruth was quietly spending in her room, beguiling the waiting, weary hours, with pictures of the meeting at the end.  Her room looked to the back, and was in a side-wing away from the principal state apartments, consequently she was not roused to suspicion by any of the commotion; but, indeed, if she had heard the banging of doors, the sharp directions, the carriage-wheels, she would still not have suspected the truth; her own love was too faithful.

It was four o’clock and past, when some one knocked at her door, and, on entering, gave her a note, which Mrs. Bellingham had left.  That lady had found some difficulty in wording it so as to satisfy herself, but it was as follows:—­

“My son, on recovering from his illness, is, I thank God, happily conscious of the sinful way in which he has been living with you.  By his earnest desire, and in order to avoid seeing you again, we are on the point of leaving this place; but, before I go, I wish to exhort you to repentance, and to remind you that you will not have your own guilt alone upon your head, but that of any young man whom you may succeed in entrapping into vice.  I shall pray that you may turn to an honest life, and I strongly recommend you, if indeed you are not ‘dead in trespasses and sins,’ to enter some penitentiary.  In accordance with my son’s wishes, I forward you in this envelope a bank-note of fifty pounds.

“Margaret Bellingham.”

Was this the end of all?  Had he, indeed, gone?  She started up, and asked this last question of the servant, who, half guessing at the purport of the note, had lingered about the room, curious to see the effect produced.