But now the road was empty and though at
another time she would have been afraid of the lonely country, to-night
she had a sense of escape from greater perils than any lurking here.
And before long it all seemed like a dream, but it was a dream that
might recur if she ran the risk.
No, she would never go there again, she would never envy Aunt Rose a
lover from that house, she would never believe that the worst of
Christabel's implications were true. They were the fabrications of a
suspicious woman, and though her jealousy might be justified, it
seemed to Henrietta that she deserved her fate. She was hateful, she
was poisonous, and Henrietta felt a sudden tenderness for Aunt Rose
and Francis Sales. They could not help themselves, for they were
unfortunate, she longed to show them sympathy and she saw herself
taking them by the hand and saying gently, 'Confide in me. I
understand.' She imagined Aunt Rose melting at that touch and those
words into tears, perhaps of repentance, certainly of gratitude, but
at this point Henrietta's fancies were interrupted by the sound of
footsteps behind her. She quickened her pace, then began to run, and
the steps followed, gaining on her. She could not outrun them and she
stopped, turning to see who came.
'Miss Mallett!' It was the voice of Francis Sales. She sank down on a
heap of stones, panting and laughing. He sat beside her. 'What's the
matter?'
'I don't know. I hate to hear anybody coming behind me.
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