"I am the woman who came in too late to stop your marriage; your own friends, who are far away, would tell you to see me. For God's sake, let me do what I can for you, even now."
But for her wording, as to his "friends far away," he would have paid no heed; he remembers now, in a dazed sort of way, amidst the medley he has been in ever since his arrival, that there was some woman who appeared, was maligned, and vanished, all in a few seconds. Yes, if he could only feel sure the oak door only separated him from one not in league with his enemies, as he now feels them to be, the lock would be immediately turned; but, should it be a fraud whereby to obtain admittance for the terrible woman he has wedded, and whom he loathes and fears at the same time; and so, with his cold, nervous hand upon the lock, he hesitates, when she again appeals a last time through the keyhole.
"I must go, and leave you to your misery, if you will not open the door; they are preparing to come up stairs."
At this, the dread of loneliness, the craving for sympathy, with the sinking feeling of sickness coming over him, the natural instinct of self-preservation impelling him to risk something in endeavoring to secure one friend to be about him if he cannot shake off this feeling of intense lassitude, low spirits, head and brain on fire, and throbbing as with ten thousand pulses, cause him with a sudden fear lest she should go, to turn the key, when noiselessly, a pale woman with an intensely sad expression in her whole countenance, and prematurely grey, enters.
"Poor fellow! and a kindly, handsome face, too; what a sacrifice! God knows how willingly I would have saved you; but their moves were hidden from me," she said piteously, in a low whisper, gazing into his face tearfully, while taking his hands in her own.
In the reaction he flung her off, saying, brokenly,
"Why were you not in time? What trust have you broken so, blighting my very existence? Out upon you, woman, you may go and leave me to despair."
"No, no, I must stay; I will stay; you are ill, but will be more calm; though with her! God help you, you will never find peace, never be at rest."
And throwing her apron over her face, she, too, sank on to the sofa where he was; but he is, after a few moments, quiet again, and drawing the covering from her face, which she has used as if to shut out the view where all, all is misery to the last degree, she turns to look at him; both hands white, cold and trembling, cover his face, through his fingers drop scalding tears, silent tears of woe.
"Do not give way so, sir. Poor fellow, you are indeed to be pitied, away from your home, away from your own land. They sent me off to London on messages—to get me out of the way—for some things for Miss Villiers, as then was."