“Yes, yes, that is all past and gone, and now you will do this for me. I think I am going—I cannot live long like this—tell him, then, quickly—tell him I must see him—tell him that he must come.”
Grey’s heart sank within her, and she rose slowly from her seat, and loosed the two thin hands she had held. It was like signing her own death-warrant to send this message, for if Captain Hilton did not know of her wanderings, and this, Helen’s last wish, he—who was, perhaps, forgetting more and more his love—would hardly dwell upon it again. To do this was to revive it, for she told herself that Hilton would be too generous not to respond.
But Grey Stuart was a heroine—one of those women ready at any sacrifice of self to do a duty; and she turned to go just as Mrs Bolter entered the room.
“What is it—what does she want?” whispered the little lady eagerly.
“Helen wishes to see—” began Grey, in a choking voice.
“Yes, yes, I must—I will see him, to humble myself before I die!” moaned Helen.
“Will you—send at once,” panted Grey, with her hand pressed upon her side, for she could hardly speak the words—“send for Captain Hilton to come?”
She forced the words from her lips, and then sank back in her chair with a blank feeling of misery upon her, to gather force to enable her to flee from a house where she told herself that she could no longer stay.
It was but momentary this sensation, and then she uttered a sob, and the tears began silently to flow, for she heard Helen say, in a quick, harsh, peevish voice:
“No, no, you mistake me! I want Mr Harley quick, or—too late!”