“Too late, I’m afraid, to be of the slightest use now,” said Helen, bitterly.
“We’ll hope not,” said the Chief, with an oleaginous purr. “It’s never too late to repair an indiscretion.”
But Helen’s temper showed a rising insurgency. “To my mind,” she said, “the whole thing is indefensible. It’s a blunder or worse, on the part of somebody.”
Mr. Hartz did his best with soft words, but Helen was deeply angry. Clearly he was afraid of losing her and, rather than do so, he was ready to grovel. Several times, indeed, in the course of this painful interview, she was on the point of taking a definite, irrevocable step, but the consummate tact of the man with whom she was dealing was just able to stave off a final decision. And yet, in Helen’s own mind, it was not this diplomacy which really turned the scale; it was, when all was said, a sense of deep loyalty to one from whom she had received much kindness that became the determining factor.
“I understand you’ve telegraphed for further news. As soon as you hear, please let me know how he is, unfortunate fellow!”
With that almost angelic valediction in her ears, Helen retired. But anger, impatience, bitterness were running riot. Her spirit was more than ever at war. Why had she not the resolution to break with this man? As soon as she had forsaken the presence of this spell-binder for the privacy of her own room, the stern question had to be met. A breach was almost inevitable now.
In a state of miserable indecision she returned to her work. But all the morning her thoughts were elsewhere. She could think of little save the answer to her telegram. Just before one o’clock, however, came the welcome news that John’s injury was not serious and that he was looking forward to seeing her on the morrow at Wyndham.
XX
HELEN’S brief visit to the country proved to be a rather severe ordeal. It began with a lonely five-mile drive from the station in an antiquated brougham. And, on arrival at Wyndham about six o’clock on Saturday evening, a general state of tension was not made less when she found that John in obedience to doctor’s orders was keeping his bed, and that his mother had mounted guard over him.
Lady Elizabeth was a dragon “of the old school”; at least, that was the effect she contrived to make upon Helen in the course of their first evening together. A masterful dame of seventy, wonderfully active in spite of growing infirmity, it was clear to the guest, by the time she had spent ten minutes with her fiancé’s mother, that she would have a head full of feudal ideas to contend with. For the mistress of Wyndham, beyond a doubt, was a survival of another age. And to the modern mind of an American it was an age of considerably less enlightenment.