Sir Charles got up directly, and hurried to the hall door. Compton
followed to the door only and looked.
Sure enough it was Reginald, full-grown, and bold, as handsome as ever,
and darker than ever.
In that moment his misconduct in running away never occurred either to
Sir Charles or Compton; all was eager and tremulous welcome. The hall
rang with joy. They almost carried him into the dining-room.
The first thing they saw was a train of violet-colored velvet, half
hidden by the table.
Compton ran forward with a cry of dismay.
It was Lady Bassett, in a dead swoon, her face as white as her neck and
arms, and these as white and smooth as satin.
CHAPTER XLII.
LADY BASSETT was carried to her room, and did not reappear. She kept
her own apartments, and her health declined so rapidly that Sir Charles
sent for Dr. Willis. He prescribed for the body, but the disease lay in
the mind. Martyr to an inward struggle, she pined visibly, and her
beautiful eyes began to shine like stars, preternaturally large. She
was in a frightful condition: she longed to tell the truth and end it
all; but then she must lose her adored husband's respect, and perhaps
his love; and she had not the courage. She saw no way out of it but to
die and leave her confession; and, as she felt that the agony of her
soul was killing her by degrees, she drew a somber resignation from
that.
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