"Poor dear! I must come, I suppose, but I must just leave a note for my husband. I was going for my first ride with him this afternoon. How can I get back?"
"I'll send my car back with you, of course."
Anstice went to her writing-desk and scribbled a note.
"DEAR JUSTIN,—
"I am so sorry. I hope you will not mind, but Miss Maybrick has called to take me to her sister, who she fears is dying. She wants to see me. I hope I shall be back by tea-time. She will send me back in her car.
"In haste.
"ANSTICE."
Then she went upstairs to put on her outdoor things, and in ten minutes' time was being whirled along towards Harscale Hall.
Miss Maybrick seemed inclined to talk. Her dark, keen eyes looked miserable.
"I can't believe she's dying. She has aged so wonderfully since I saw her last. I think of her as a laughing, merry child, when I used to mother her. I little thought then how we should spend our last years. You did well to talk to me as you did; it made me write her a kinder letter than I had intended to do. I told her of a farm about four miles off, where I would make arrangements for her comfort and pay for her board if she liked to go. I knew we could never live together in the same house. We are both too masterful. But you see she was determined not to go."
"I can't believe she would determinedly try to make herself ill," said Anstice. "Perhaps she was feeling rather desperate and wandered out in the wet to think things out. She told me she was very fond of walking in the woods."
"I know Carrie better than you do. When I arrived at the Hall, she looked at me over the bedclothes. 'You can't turn me out now,' she said, 'Dr. Walters won't allow you to.' And then she turned her face to the wall, and wouldn't speak to me again until to-day. All last night she cried for you. 'Fetch Mrs. Holme, I want her. I'm going to die, fetch her!' And when I went into her this morning, it was the same old cry; so I spoke to her."
"'Cheer up,' I said; 'I'll fetch her. I'll go at once.' And off I came. She looked at me suspiciously, but had the grace to say 'Thank you,' and then the pain seized her, and that's the last I've seen of her. I suppose you think I feel remorseful about it? I don't! I only feel that in the long run people's greed and covetousness find them out. They have to suffer. But I almost feel sorry for her now that she's such a wreck. I'll do my best to ease her last hours on earth."