Meanwhile William Halliburton and his wife had crossed the Channel. Amongst other letters, written home to convey news of them, was the following. It was written by Mary to Mrs. Ashley, after they had been abroad a week or two.

"HÔtel du Chapeau Rouge, Dunkerque,

"September 24th.

"My ever dear Mamma,

"You have heard from William how it was that we altered our intended route. I thought the sea-side so delightful that I was unwilling to leave it, even for Paris, and we determined to remain on the coast, especially as I shall have other opportunities of seeing Paris with William. Boulogne was crowded and noisy, so we left it for less frequented towns, staying a day or two in each place. We went to Calais and to Gravelines; also to Bourbourg, and to Cassel—the two latter not on the coast. The view from Cassel—which you must not confound with Cassel in Germany—is magnificent. We met some English people on the summit of the hill, and they told us the English called it the Malvern of France. I am not sure which affords the finer view, Cassel or Malvern. They say that eighty towns or villages may be counted from it; but I cannot say that we made out anything like so many. We can see the sea in the far distance—as we can, on a clear day, catch a glimpse from Malvern of the Bristol Channel. The view from some of the windows of the HÔtel de Sauvage was so beautiful that I was never tired of looking at it. William says he shall show me better views when he takes me to Lyons and Annonay, but I scarcely think it possible. At a short distance rises a monastery of the order of La Trappe, where the monks never speak, except the 'Memento mori' when they meet each other. Some of the customs of the hotel were primitive; they gave us tablespoons in our coffee-cups for breakfast.

"From Cassel we came to Dunkerque, and are staying at the Chapeau Rouge, the only large hotel in the place. The other large hotel was made into a convent some time back; both are in the Rue des Capucins. It is a fine and very clean old fortified town, with a statue of Jean Bart in the middle of the Place. Place Jean Bart, it is called; and the market is held in it on Wednesdays and Saturdays, as it is at Helstonleigh. Such a crowded scene on the Saturday! and the women's snow-white caps quite shine in the sun. I cannot tell you how much I like to look at these old Flemish towns! By moonlight, they look exactly like the towns you are familiar with in old pictures. There is a large basin here, and a long harbour and pier. One English lady, whom we met at the table d'hÔte, said she had never been to the end of the pier yet, and she had lived in Dunkerque four years. It was too far for a walk, she said. The country round is flat and poor, and the lower classes mostly speak Flemish.

"On Monday we went by barge to a place called Bergues, four miles off. It was market day there, and the barge was crowded with passengers from Dunkerque. A nice old town, with a fine church. They charged us only five sous for our passage. But I must leave all these descriptions until I return home, and come to what I have chiefly to tell you.

"There is a piece of enclosed ground here, called the Pare. On the previous Saturday, which was the day we first arrived here, I and William were walking through it, and sat down on one of the benches facing the old tower. I was rather tired, having been to the end of the pier—for its length did not alarm us. Some one was seated at the other end of the bench, but we did not take particular notice of her. Suddenly she turned to me, and spoke: 'Have I not the honour of seeing Miss Ashley?' Mamma, you may imagine my surprise. It was that Italian governess of the Dares, Mademoiselle Varsini, as they used to call her. William interposed: I don't think he liked her speaking to me. I suppose he thought of that story about her, which came over from Germany. He rose and took me on his arm to move away. 'Formerly Miss Ashley,' he said to her: 'now Mrs. Halliburton.' But William's anger died away—if he had felt any—when he saw her face. I cannot describe to you how fearfully ill she looked. Her cheeks were white, and drawn, and hollow; her eyes were sunk within a dark circle, and her lips were open and looked black. 'Are you ill?' I asked her. 'I am so ill that a few days will be the finish of me,' she answered. 'The doctor gave me to the falling of the leaves, and many are already strewing the grass; in less than a week's time from this, I shall be lower than they are.' 'Is Herbert Dare with you?' inquired William—but he has said since that he spoke in the moment's impulse. Had he taken thought, he would not have put the question. 'No, he is not with me,' she answered, in an angry tone. 'I know nothing of him. He is just a vagabond on the face of the earth.' 'What is it that is the matter with you?' William asked her. 'They call it decay,' she answered. 'I was in Brussels, getting my living by daily teaching. I had to go out in all weathers, and I did not take heed to the colds I caught. I suppose they settled on my lungs.' 'Have you been in this town long?' we inquired of her. 'I came in August,' she answered. 'The Belgian doctor said if I had a change, it might do something for me, and I came here; it was the same to me where I went. But it did me harm instead of good. I grew worse directly I came; and the doctor here said I must not move away again; the travelling would injure me. What mattered it? As good die here as elsewhere.' That she had death written plainly in her face, was evident. Nevertheless, William tried to say a word of hope to her: but she interrupted him. 'There's no recovery for me; I am sure to die; and the time, it's to be hoped, will not be long in coming, or my money will not hold out.' She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone shocking to hear: and before I could call up any answer, she turned to William. 'You are the William Halli—I never could say the name—who was at Mr. Ashley's with Cyril Dare. May I ask where you have descended in Dunkerque?' 'At the Chapeau Rouge,' replied William. 'Then, if I should send there to ask you to come and speak with me, will you come?' she continued. 'I have something that I should like to tell you before I die.' William informed her that we should remain a week; and we wished her good morning and moved away into another walk. Soon afterwards, we saw a Sister of Charity, one of those who go about nursing the sick, come up to her and lead her away. She could scarcely crawl, and halted to take breath between every few steps.

"This, I have told you, was last Saturday. This evening, Wednesday, just as we were rising from table, a waiter came to William and called him out, saying he was wanted. It proved to be the Sister of Charity that we had seen in the park; she told William that Madame Varsini was near death, and had sent her for him. So William went with her, and I have been writing this to you since his departure. It is now ten o'clock, and he has not yet returned. I shall keep this open to tell you what she wanted with him. I cannot imagine.

"Past eleven. William has come in. He thinks she will not live over to-morrow. And I have kept my letter open for nothing, for William will not tell me. He says she has been talking to him about herself and the Dares; but that the tale is more fit for papa's ears than for yours or mine.

"My sincerest love to papa and Henry. We are so glad Gar is to be at Deoffam!—And believe me, your ever-loving child,

"Mary Halliburton."

"Excuse the smear. I had nearly put 'Mary Ashley.'"

This meeting, described in Mary's letter, must have been one of those remarkable coincidences that sometimes occur during a lifetime. Chance encounters they are sometimes called. Chance! Had William and his wife not gone to Dunkerque—and they went there by accident, as may be said, for the original plan had been to spend their absence in Paris—they would not have met. Had the Italian lady not gone to Dunkerque when ordered change—and she chose it by accident, she said—they would not have met. But somehow both parties were brought there, and they did meet. It was not chance that led them there.

When William went out with the sister, she conducted him to a small lodging in the Rue Nationale, a street not far from the hotel. The accommodation appeared to consist of a small ante-room and a bed-chamber. Signora Varsini was in the latter, dressed in a peignoir, and sitting in an arm-chair, supported by cushions. A washed-out, faded peignoir, possibly the very one she had worn years ago, the night of the death of Anthony Dare. William was surprised; by the sister's account he had expected to find her in bed, almost in the last extremity. But hers was a restless spirit. She was evidently weaker, and her breath seemed to come irregularly. William sat down in a chair opposite to her: he could not see very much of her face, for the small lamp on the table had a green shade over it, which cast its gloom on the room.

The sister retired to the ante-room and closed the door between with a caution. "Madame was not to talk much." For a few moments after the first greeting, she, "Madame," kept silence; then she spoke in English.

"I should not have known you. I never saw much of you. But I knew Miss Ashley in a moment. You must have prospered well."

"Yes, I am Mr. Ashley's partner."

"So! That is what Cyril Dare coveted for himself. Miss Ashley also. 'Bah, Monsieur Cyril!' said I sometimes to my mind; 'neither the one nor the other for thee.' Where is he?"

"Cyril? He is at home. Doing no good."

"He never do good," she said with bitterness. "He Herbert's own brother. And the other one—George?"

"George is in Australia. He has a chance, I believe, of doing pretty well."

"Are the girls married?"

"No."

"Not Adelaide?"

"No."

Something like a smile curled her dark and fevered lips. "Mademoiselle Adelaide was trying after that vicomte. 'Bah!' I would say to myself as I did by Cyril, 'there's no vicomte for her; he is only playing his game.' Does he go there now?"

"Lord Hawkesley? Oh, no. All intimacy has ceased."

"They have gone down, have they not? They are very poor?"

"I fear they are poor now. Yes, they have very much gone down. May I inquire what it is you want with me?"

"You inquire soon," she answered in resentful tones. "Do you fear I should contaminate you?—as you feared for your wife on Saturday?"

"If I can aid you in any way I shall be happy and ready to do so," was William's answer, spoken soothingly. "I think you are very ill."

"The doctor was here this afternoon. 'Ma chÈre,' said he, 'to-morrow will about end it. You are too weak to last longer; the inside is gone.'"

"Did he speak to you in that way?—a medical man!"

"He is aware that I know as much about my own state as he does. He might not be so plain with all his patients. Then I said to the sister, 'Get me up and make the bed, for I must see a friend.'—And I sent her for you. I told you I wanted you to do me a little service. Will you do it?"

"If it is in my power."

"It is not much. It is this," she added, drawing from beneath the peignoir a small packet, sealed and stamped, looking like a thick letter. "Will you undertake to put this surely in the post after I am dead? I do not want it posted before."

"Certainly I will," he answered, taking it from her hand, and glancing at the superscription. It was addressed to Herbert Dare at Dusseldorf. "Is he there?" asked William.

"That was his address the last I heard of him. He is now here, now there, now elsewhere; a vagabond, as I told you, on the face of the earth. He is like Cain," she vehemently continued. "Cain wandered abroad over the earth, never finding rest. So does Herbert Dare. Who wonders? Cain killed his brother: what did he do?"

William lifted his eyes to her face; as much of it as might be distinguished under the dark shade cast by the lamp. That she appeared to be in a very demonstrative state of resentment against Herbert Dare was indisputable.

"He did not kill his brother, at any rate," observed William. "I fear he is not a good man; and you may have cause to know that more conclusively than I; but he did not kill his brother. You were in Helstonleigh at the time, mademoiselle, and must remember that he was cleared," added William, falling into the style of address used by the Dares.

"Then I say he did kill him."

She spoke with slow distinctness. William could only look at her in amazement. Was her mind wandering? She sat glaring at him with her light blue eyes, so glazed, yet glistening; just the same eyes that used to puzzle old Anthony Dare.

"What did you say?" asked William.

"I say that Herbert Dare is a second Cain," she answered.

"He did not kill Anthony," repeated William. "He could not have killed him. He was in another place at the time."

"Yes. With that Puritan child in the dainty dress—fit attire only for your folles in—what you call the place?—Bedlam! I know he was in another place," she continued: and she appeared to be growing terribly excited, between passion and natural emotion.

"Then what are you speaking of?" asked William. "It is an impossibility that Herbert could have killed his brother."

"He caused him to be killed."

William felt a nameless dread creeping over him. "What do you mean?" he breathed.

"I send that letter, which you have taken charge of, to Herbert the bad; but he moves about from place to place, and it may never reach him. So I want to tell you in substance what is written in the letter, that you may repeat it to him when you come across him. He may be going back to Helstonleigh some day; if he not die off first, with his vagabond life. Was it not said there, once, that he was dead?"

"Only for a day or two. It was a false report."

"And when you see him—in case he has not had that packet—you will tell him this that I am now about to tell you."

"What is its nature?" asked William.

"Will you promise to tell him?"

"Not until I first hear what it may be," fearlessly replied William. "Intrust it to me, if you will, and I will keep it sacred; but I must use my own judgment as to imparting it to Herbert Dare. It may be something that would be better left unsaid."

"I do not ask you to keep it sacred," she rejoined. "You may tell it to the world if you please; you may tell it to your wife; you may tell it to all Helstonleigh. But not until I am dead. Will you give that promise?"

"That I will readily give you."

"On your honour?"

William's truthful eyes smiled into hers. "On my honour—if that shall better satisfy you. It was not necessary."

She remained silent a few moments, and then burst forth vehemently. "When you see him, that cochon, that vaurien——"

"I beg you to be calm," interrupted William. "This excitement must be most injurious to one in your weak state; I cannot sit and listen to it."

"Tell him," said she, leaning forward, and speaking in a somewhat calmer tone, "tell him that it was he who caused the death of his brother Anthony."

William could only look at her. Was she wandering? "I killed him," she went on. "Killed him in mistake for Monsieur Herbert."

Barely had the words left her lips, when all that had been strange in that past tragedy seamed to roll away as a cloud from William's mind. The utter mystery there had been as to the perpetrator: the almost impossibility of pointing accusation to any, seemed now accounted for: and a conviction that she was speaking the dreadful truth fell upon him. Involuntarily he recoiled from her.

"He used me ill; yes, he used me ill, that wicked Herbert!" she continued in agitation. "He told me stories; he was false to me; he mocked at me! He had made me care for him; I cared for him—ah, I not tell you how. And then he turned round to laugh at me. He had but amused himself—pour faire passer la temps!"

Her voice had risen to a shriek; her face and lips grew ghastly, and she began to twitch as one falling into convulsion. William grew alarmed, and hastened to her support. He could not help it, much as his spirit revolted from her.

"Y a-t-il quelque chose qu'on peut donner À madame pour la soulager?" he called out hastily to the sister in his fear.

The woman glided in. "Mais oui, monsieur. Madame s'agite, n'est-ce pas?"

"Elle s'agite beaucoup."

The sister poured some drops from a phial into a wine-glass of water, and held it to those quivering lips. "Si vous vous agitez comme cela, madame, c'est pour vous tuer, savez-vous?" cried she.

"I fear so too," added William in English to the invalid. "It would be better for me not to hear this, than for you to put yourself into this state."

She grew calmer, and the sister quitted them. William resumed his seat as before; there appeared to be no help for it, and she continued her tale.

"I not agitate myself again," she said. "I not tell you all the details, or what I suffered: À quoi bon? Pain at morning, pain at midday, pain at night; I think my heart turned dark, and it has never been right again——"

"Hush, mademoiselle! The sister will hear you."

"What matter? She not speak English."

"I really cannot, for your sake, remain here, if you put yourself into this state," he rejoined.

"You must remain; you must listen! You have promised to do it," she answered.

"I will, if you will be calm."

"I'll be calm," she rejoined, the check having driven back the rising passion. "The worst is told. Or rather, I do not tell you the worst—that mauvais Herbert! Do you wonder that my spirit was turned to revenge?"

Perceiving somewhat of her fierce and fiery nature, William did not wonder at it. "I do not know what I am to understand yet?" he whispered. "Did you—kill—Anthony?"

She leaned back on her pillow, clasping her hands before her. "Ah me! I did! Tell him so," she continued again passionately; "tell him that I killed Anthony—thinking it was him."

"It is a dreadful story!" shuddered William.

"I did not mean it to be so dreadful," she answered, speaking quite equably. "No, I did not; and I am telling you as true as though it were my confession before receiving the bon dieu. I only meant to wound him——"

"Herbert?"

"Herbert! Of course; who else but Herbert?" she retorted, giving signs of another relapse. "Had I cause of anger against that pauvre Anthony? No; no. Anthony was sharp with the rest sometimes, but he was always civil to me; I never had a mis-word with him. I not like Cyril; but I not dislike George and Anthony. Why, why," she continued, wringing her hands, "did Anthony come forth from his chamber that night and go out, when he said he had retired to it for good? That is where all the evil arose."

"Not all," dissented William in low tones.

"Yes, all," she sharply repeated. "I had only meant to give Mr. Herbert a little prick in the dark, just to repay him, to stop his pleasant visits to that field for a term. I never thought to kill him. I liked him better than that, ill as he was behaving to me. I never thought to kill him; I never thought much to hurt him. And it would not have hurt Anthony; but that he was what you call tipsy, and fell on the point of the——"

"Scissors?" suggested William, for she had stopped. How could he, even with this confession before him, speak to a lady—or one who ought to have been a lady—of any uglier weapon?

"I had something by me sharper than scissors. But never you mind what. That, so far, does not matter. The little hurt I had intended for Herbert he escaped; and poor Anthony was killed."

There was a long pause. William broke it, speaking out his thoughts impulsively.

"And yet you went to Rotterdam afterwards to make friends with Herbert!"

"When he write and tell me there good teaching in the place, could I know it was untrue? Could I know that he would borrow all my money from me? Could I know that he turn out a worse——"

"Mademoiselle, I pray you, be calm."

"There, then. I will say no more. I have outlived it. But I wish him to know that that fine night's work was his. It was the right man who lay in prison for it. The letter I have given you may never reach him; and I ask you tell him, for his pill, should it not."

"Then you have never hinted this to him?" asked William.

"Never. I was afraid. Will you tell him?"

"I cannot make the promise. I must use my own discretion. I think it is very unlikely that I shall ever see him."

"You meet people that you do not look for. Until last Saturday, you might have said it was unlikely that you would meet me."

"That is true."

Now that the excitement of the disclosure was over, she lay back in a grievous state of exhaustion. William rose to leave, and she held out her hand to him. Could he shun it—guilty as she had confessed herself to him? No. Who was he, that he should set himself up to judge her? And she was dying!

"Can nothing be done to alleviate your sufferings?" he inquired in a kindly tone.

"Nothing. The sooner death comes to release me from them, the better."

He lingered yet, hesitating. Then he bent closer to her, and spoke in a whisper.

"Have you thought much of that other life? Of the necessity of repentance—of seeking earnestly the pardon of God?"

"That is your Protestant fashion," she answered with equanimity. "I have made my confession to a priest and he has given me absolution. A good fat old man; he was very kind to me; he saw how I had been tossed and turned about in life. He will bring the bon dieu to me the last thing, and cause a mass to be said for my soul."

"I thought I had heard that you were a Protestant."

"I was either. I said I was a Protestant to Madame Dare. But the Roman Catholic religion is the most convenient to take up when you are passing. Your priests say they cannot pardon sins."

The interview took longer in acting than it has in telling, and William returned to the hotel to find Mary tired, wondering at his absence, and a letter to Mrs. Ashley—with which you have been favoured—lying on the table, awaiting its conclusion.

"You are weary, my darling. You should not have remained up."

"I thought you were never coming, William. I thought you must have gone off by the London steamer, and left me here! The hotel omnibus took some passengers to it at ten o'clock."

William sat down on the sofa, and drew her to him; the full tide of thankfulness going up from his heart that all women were not as the one he had just left.

"And what did Mademoiselle Varsini want with you, William? Is she really dying?"

"I think she is dying. You must not ask me what she wanted, Mary. It was to tell me something—to speak of things connected with herself and the Dares. They would not be pleasant to your ears."

"But I have been writing an account of all this to mamma, and have left my letter open, to send word what the governess could have to say to you. What can I tell her?"

"Tell her as I tell you, my dearest: that what I have been listening to is more fit for Mr. Ashley's ears than for yours or hers."

Mary rose and wrote rapidly the concluding lines. William stood and watched her. He laughed at the "smear."

"I am not familiar with my new name yet: I was signing myself 'Mary Ashley.'"

"Would you go back to the old name, if you could?" cried he, somewhat saucily.

"Oh, William!"

Saturday came round again: the day they were to leave—just a week since they had come, since the encounter in the park. They were taking an early walk in the market, when certain low sounds, as of chanting, struck upon their ears. A funeral was coming along; it had just turned out of the great church of St. Eloi, at the other corner of the Place. Not a wealthy funeral—quite the other thing. On the previous day they had seen a grand interment, attended by its distinguishing marks; seven or eight banners, as many priests. Some sudden feeling prompted William to ask whose funeral this was, and he made inquiry of a shopkeeper, who was standing at her door.

"Monsieur, c'est l'enterrement d'une ÉtrangÈre. Une Italienne, l'on dit: Madame Varsini."

"Oh, William! do they bury her already?" was Mary's shocked remonstrance. "It was only yesterday at midday the sister came to you to say she had died. What a shame!"

"Hush, love! Many of the people here understand English. They bury quickly in these countries."

They stood on the pavement, and the funeral came quickly on. One black banner borne aloft in a man's hand, two boys in surplices with lighted candles, and the priest chanting with his open book. Eight men, in white corded hats and black cloaks, bore the coffin on a bier, and there was a sprinkling of impromptu followers—as there always is at these foreign funerals. As the dead was borne past him on its way to the cemetery, William, following the usage of the country, lifted his hat, and remained uncovered until it had gone by.

And that was the last of Bianca Varsini.