Dr Bolter himself met them, looking very grave, and the faint hope that had been struggling in Neil Harley’s breast died out.
The doctor saw the question in each of his visitors’ eyes, and answered, hastily:
“No; I don’t think there is immediate danger, but—She expressed a wish to see you, Harley.”
That but, and the way in which he finished his sentence, spoke volumes. An invalid in a dangerous state expressing a wish to see some one in particular! It was like the cold chill of death itself seeming near.
“You may go in, Harley,” said the doctor. “My wife and Miss Stuart are there.”
The Resident hesitated for a moment. Then drawing a long breath, he walked through the drawing-room, and into Helen’s bedroom, seeing nothing but the thin swarthy face upon the white pillow, about which was tossed her abundant hair.
Mrs Bolter rose as he entered, and taking Grey Stuart’s hand, they softly moved towards the door, and left the room without a word.
For a few moments Neil Harley stood there, gazing down at the wasted face before him, his very soul looking out, as it were, from his eyes, in the intensity of his misery and despair; while Helen gazed up at him now with a saddened and resigned expression of countenance, the vanity all passed away and the dread that he should see her, disfigured as she was, a something of the past.
“I sent for you to ask you to forgive me,” she said, in a low, faint voice; but he did not speak.
“I know now how weak—how vain I was—how cruel to you; but—you know—my folly, you will forgive?”