Ledyard bent and laid a handful of boughs upon the fire. The room was cold and cheerless, and the still, white figure in the chair seemed the quiet, chill heart of it all. And yet—how she had loved and laboured for the boy! Was she passionless or had her passion been killed while at white heat?
"And—and I suppose Dick must know?"
"Yes. Dick must know."
There was no sternness, but there was determination in the strong, even voice. Then:
"Helen, let me do this for you!"
For a moment the uplifted eyes faltered and fell away from the man's face. Very faintly the words came:
"God bless you! I could not bear to see—him fail me. If he must—fail, I cannot see him until—afterward."
The blaze rose higher, and the dark room was a background for that deathlike form before the hearth.
Ledyard left the room silently, and a moment later Helen Travers heard his heavy footfall on the porch outside. Presently the erratic violin playing ceased and there seemed no sound on the face of the earth.
After what seemed hours, Pine, the guide, entered the room to replenish the fire, and Helen told him he need not light the lamps. After his going another aching silence followed through which, at last, stole the consciousness that she was not alone. Some one had come into the room from a long window opening on the piazza. Helen dared not look, for if it were Ledyard she would know that things were very bad indeed. Then came the slightly dragging step that she had learned to be so grateful for after the helplessness of crippled childhood. Still she did not move, nor deeply hope. The boy was kind, oh! so tenderly kind, he might only have come because he must!