William found her walking restlessly up and down; she gave him a look, and then stood quite still, shrinking a little to one side, as if she expected a blow. Something in that frightened, sidewise attitude made him hesitate to tell her of Benjamin Wright; she hardly knew the old gentleman, but it would startle her, the doctor reasoned. And yet, when very carefully, almost casually, he said that Mr. Wright had had a slight shock—"his life is not in danger just now," said William, "but he can't speak;"—she lifted her head and looked at him, drawing a full breath, as if eased of some burdening thought.
"Will he ever speak?" she said.
"I don't know; I think so. But probably it is the beginning of the end; poor old man!"
"Poor old man," she repeated mechanically; "poor old man!"
"I haven't told Dr. Lavendar about—last night," William said; "but if you have no objection I would like to just hint at—at a reason. He would know how entirely blameless you were."
"Oh, no! please, please, don't!" she said. And William King winced at his own clumsiness; her reticence made him feel as if he had been guilty of an impropriety, almost of an indelicacy.
After a pause he said gently, that he hoped she would sit with Mrs.
King and himself at the funeral on Wednesday.
Helena caught her hands together convulsively; "I go? Oh, no, no! I am not going."
The doctor was greatly distressed. "I know it is hard for you, but I'm afraid Samuel and his wife will be so hurt if you don't come. They know the boy was fond of you—you were always so good to him. I don't like to urge you, because I know it pains you but—"
"Oh, I can't—I can't!"