She left the room, with the will and the letter in her hand—­with the natural, human pity at her heart which sealed her lips and shut her eyes resolutely to the future.  In the hall she stopped and listened.  Not a sound was audible.  She softly ascended the stairs, on her way to her own room, and passed the door of Norah’s bed-chamber.  Voices inside, the voices of the two sisters, caught her ear.  After a moment’s consideration, she checked herself, turned back, and quickly descended the stairs again.  Both Norah and Magdalen knew of the interview between Mr. Pendril and herself; she had felt it her duty to show them his letter making the appointment.  Could she excite their suspicion by locking herself up from them in her room as soon as the lawyer had left the house?  Her hand trembled on the banister; she felt that her face might betray her.  The self-forgetful fortitude, which had never failed her until that day, had been tried once too often—­had been tasked beyond its powers at last.

At the hall door she reflected for a moment again, and went into the garden; directing her steps to a rustic bench and table placed out of sight of the house among the trees.  In past times she had often sat there, with Mrs. Vanstone on one side, with Norah on the other, with Magdalen and the dogs romping on the grass.  Alone she sat there now—­the will and the letter which she dared not trust out of her own possession, laid on the table—­her head bowed over them; her face hidden in her hands.  Alone she sat there and tried to rouse her sinking courage.

Doubts thronged on her of the dark days to come; dread beset her of the hidden danger which her own silence toward Norah and Magdalen might store up in the near future.  The accident of a moment might suddenly reveal the truth.  Mr. Pendril might write, might personally address himself to the sisters, in the natural conviction that she had enlightened them.  Complications might gather round them at a moment’s notice; unforeseen necessities might arise for immediately leaving the house.  She saw all these perils—­and still the cruel courage to face the worst, and speak, was as far from her as ever.  Ere long the thickening conflict of her thoughts forced its way outward for relief, in words and actions.  She raised her head and beat her hand helplessly on the table.

“God help me, what am I to do?” she broke out.  “How am I to tell them?”

“There is no need to tell them,” said a voice behind her.  “They know it already.”

She started to her feet and looked round.  It was Magdalen who stood before her—­Magdalen who had spoken those words.

Yes, there was the graceful figure, in its mourning garments, standing out tall and black and motionless against the leafy background.  There was Magdalen herself, with a changeless stillness on her white face; with an icy resignation in her steady gray eyes.

“We know it already,” she repeated, in clear, measured tones.  “Mr. Vanstone’s daughters are Nobody’s Children; and the law leaves them helpless at their uncle’s mercy.”