And she had fled just as he had claimed her as his
wife, had fled just as he had claimed her as his wife, unheeding
whether he died of the injury she had caused him! All that justified
her alarm was forgotten, her heartstrings had wound themselves round
him, and began to pull her back.
Then she thought of the danger of directing Lady Belamour's wrath
on her father, and leading to his expulsion and destitution. She
had been sent from home, and bestowed in marriage to prevent his
ruin, and should she now ensure it? Her return to him or even her
disappearance would no doubt lead to high words from him, and then
he would be cast out to beggary in his old age. No, she could only
save him by yielding herself up, exonerating him from all knowledge
of her strange marriage, far more of the catastrophe, and let my
Lady do her worst! She had, as she knew, not been going on well
lately, but she had confessed her faults, and recovered her confidence
that her Heavenly Father would guard her as long as she resolutely
did her duty. And her duty, as daughter and a wife, if indeed she
was one, was surely to return, where her heart was drawing her. It
might be very terrible, but still it was going nearer to _him_, and
it would save her father.
The door was still open; she wrote a few words of gratitude and
explanation to Dame Wheatfield, on a piece of a torn book, wrapped
a couple of guineas in it, and laid it in the basket, then kneeling
again to implore protection and safety, and if it might be, forgiveness
and reconciliation, she set forth.
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