She ran back and bent over him as he leaned back, spent, against the stone, and in his bodily weakness and bitter disappointment he whispered to her, “Ellen—I can’t be left—you can’t leave me!”
She saw that it would be quite unsafe either to agitate him still further or to make him move from that seat, and yet—what was she to do? That poor girl—those poor Attertons—they must be told at once—every moment was of value.
Mr. Stamford himself, with closed eyes and fluttering breath, solved the question.
“Let Deane go,” he said feebly. “The parson—it’s the best thing. He can ask to see Atterton and explain—I’m ill—take the telegram.”
“But——” began Mrs. Stamford, when she saw that her husband could bear no more, and she silently held out the telegram to Andy.
“I can’t,” said Andy.
“You must. It’s your duty,” interrupted Mrs. Stamford in an urgent whisper.
Andy drew a long breath. How could he go on such an errand—he who was in such a turmoil of love and hope and amazement?
“I tell you,” he said desperately, “I wanted to marry her myself.”
“What does that matter? Go!” said Mrs. Stamford.