Like a flash of light in darkness came the remembrance of Miss Lawson, and the letter from her sister. Would it be too late? It was not a week ago. This must be her chance. She rose hurriedly, her limbs trembling, and tied on her bonnet. She would go to Miss Lawson at once; the place might still be vacant; she might start perhaps in the morning! The thought lent her strength. She forced herself to eat some food, though every nerve in her body was quivering from excitement.
The simple viands, the glass of milk, seemed to put new life into her; she left a message for Reuben at the next cottage, and started in feverish haste for the rectory, losing all thought of fatigue in the rush of eager desire and hope that burned within her.
Miss Lawson was seated at her window, writing, when her eyes fell on Margery’s figure coming rapidly up the path. The governess noted the girl’s pale cheeks, her worn look of pain, and her heart thrilled with sympathy.
“Well, child?” she said, as the girl came in.
“Miss Lawson——” began Margery, and then her rapid walk told on her, and she half reeled to a chair.
The governess rose, untied the bonnet, and held a glass of water to her lips. She saw at a glance that something was wrong; but she asked no questions.
“You have walked too quickly, as usual, Margery,” was all she observed, as she turned away with the glass.
“I wanted to see you,” murmured Margery; then, after a brief pause, she added slowly, “You remember what you said, Miss Lawson, that evening we parted—you would help me? I have come to claim that promise. I want——”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want what I refused that night—to leave Hurstley—go away altogether. Is it too late—oh, Miss Lawson, is it too late to go to that poor young lady?”