It was barely half-past seven when I went downstairs, but I found
them both at the breakfast-table waiting for me. In the chill
air, in the dim light, in the gloomy morning silence of the house,
we three sat down together, and tried to eat, tried to talk. The
struggle to preserve appearances was hopeless and useless, and I
rose to end it.
As I held out my hand, as Miss Halcombe, who was nearest to me,
took it, Miss Fairlie turned away suddenly and hurried from the
room.
"Better so," said Miss Halcombe, when the door had closed--"better
so, for you and for her."
I waited a moment before I could speak--it was hard to lose her,
without a parting word or a parting look. I controlled myself--I
tried to take leave of Miss Halcombe in fitting terms; but all the
farewell words I would fain have spoken dwindled to one sentence.
"Have I deserved that you should write to me?" was all I could
say.
"You have nobly deserved everything that I can do for you, as long
as we both live. Whatever the end is you shall know it."
"And if I can ever be of help again, at any future time, long
after the memory of my presumption and my folly is forgotten . . ."
I could add no more. My voice faltered, my eyes moistened in
spite of me.
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