had thought his character above all pettinesses common to meaner men. She had loved him because he was noble-hearted and large-minded.
His indifference to Bothwell's good name, his selfish coldness upon a question which to her was vital, had wounded her to the quick. She was not a woman to give way to sullenness, to shut herself up in the armour of angry pride, to give ungracious answers and scant courtesy to the husband who had offended her. Yet there was a subtle change in her manner and bearing which was perceptible to Julian Wyllard, and which he felt keenly.
Neither husband nor wife had recurred by so much as one word or hint to that scene in the yew-tree arbour. Life had glided by for these last few days in just the same manner as of old; but the shadow was there all the same. The mild genius of domestic love had veiled his face.
Dora was sitting in the library with her husband at post-time on the day of Bothwell's ride to Trevena. Julian Wyllard was at his desk writing, while his wife sat in her favourite window, absorbed in a new book, with the open box from Mudie's at her feet, when the servant brought in the post-bag. Dora watched her husband intently as he unlocked the bag and took out a pile of letters and papers. He looked up as he was sorting the letters, and surprised that earnest expression in his wife's eyes.
"You are expecting some important letter?" he said.
"Yes, I am anxious to hear from Mr. Heathcote," she answered quietly.
It was the first time that name had been spoken by either of them since the scene in the arbour.
"There is your letter, then, in Heathcote's hand, with the Paris post-mark."
"Thank you." She rose, and walked across to the desk to receive her letters. "I hope he has some good news for me."
She went back to the window, and opened Heathcote's letter, standing by the open window in the full light of the September afternoon, her husband watching her all the while. Her face brightened as she read. There was no need for him to ask if the news were good.
"Your letter seems satisfactory," he said, unfolding the Times as he spoke.
"It is a good letter," she answered. "It tells me that Mr. Heathcote has begun to see how wrong he was in suspecting Bothwell. He has evidently made some discovery about that poor girl's fate. He, at any rate, has found out who she is."
"Indeed!" said Wyllard, deep in a leading-article. "He has found out who she is?"
