“Then, if there was anything about Hugh here it would be on this table.”
“Yes.” But even at Hugh’s name she did not turn from the window, but still stood looking drearily out at the dreary day.
Perplexed and still more perplexed, Stephen stood motionless, gazing down on the writing-table. Suddenly a thought struck him. His face lit a little. The thought had possessed him now: a welcome thought. Surely the paper, the hideous paper, had fallen from the table on which his uncle had left it, fallen into the fire, and been burnt. He measured the distance with a kindling eye. Yes! Yes! It might have been that. Surely it had been that. It must be; it should be. Fascinated, he stood estimating the chances—again and again. Helen sighed and turned and came towards him slowly. He neither saw nor heard her. “That’s it. Yes, that’s it!” he exclaimed excitedly—triumphant, speaking to himself, not to Helen.
And, if Helen heard, she did not heed. After a little she came close to him and said beseechingly, “You don’t think there is any hope, do you, Stephen?”
He pulled himself together with a sharp effort—so sharp that it paled a little his face which had flushed slightly with his own relief of a moment ago. He took her hand gently. “I am sure there is not,” he told her sadly.
She left her hand in his for a moment—glad of the sympathy in his touch, then turned dejectedly away. “Poor Hugh!” she said as she moved. “Poor Hugh,” she repeated, slipping down on to the big couch.
Stephen Pryde followed her. “Helen,” he begged, “you mustn’t grieve like this—you must not torture yourself so by hoping to see Hugh again. You must put him out of your mind.” Her mother could not have said it more gently. He moved a light chair nearer the couch and sat down.
“I can’t,” she said simply.
He left his chair and sat down quietly beside her “Why won’t you let me help you? Why won’t you——”
The girl shrank back into her corner. “Don’t, Stephen—please. We’ve gone all through this before. It’s impossible.”