"I think," she murmured—"I think there must be some mistake,—the papers I brought here were for Mr. Bulteel——"
"Yes—yes!" said Sir Francis. "That's quite right! Mr. Bulteel is my confidential clerk—and the packet was addressed to him. But a note inside requested that Mr. Bulteel should bring all the documents at once to me, which he has done. Everything is quite correct—quite in order. But—I forgot! You do not know! Please sit down—and I will endeavour to explain."
He drew up a chair for her near his desk so that she might lean her arm upon it, for she looked frightened. As a matter of fact he was frightened himself. Such a task as he had now to perform had never before been allotted to him. A letter addressed to him, and enclosed in the packet containing Helmsley's Last Will and Testament, had explained the whole situation, and had fully described, with simple fidelity, the life his old friend had led at Weircombe, and the affectionate care with which Mary had tended him,—while the conclusion of the letter was worded in terms of touching farewell. "For," wrote Helmsley, "when you read this, I shall be dead and in my quiet grave at Weircombe. Let me rest there in peace,—for though my eyes will no more see the sun,—or the kindness in the eyes of the woman whose unselfish goodness has been more than the sunshine to me, I shall—or so I think and hope—be spiritually conscious that my mortal remains are buried where humble and simple folk think well of me. This last letter from my hand to you is one not of business so much as friendship—for I have learned that what we call 'business' counts for very little, while the ties of sympathy, confidence, and love between human beings are the only forces that assist in the betterment of the world. And so farewell! Let the beloved angel who brings you these last messages from me have all honour from you for my sake.—Yours,
"David Helmsley."
And now, to Sir Francis Vesey's deep concern, the "beloved angel" thus spoken of sat opposite to him, moved by evident alarm,—her blue eyes full of tears, and her face pale and scared. How was he to begin telling her what she was bound to know?
"Yes—I will—I must endeavour to explain," he repeated, bending his brows upon her and regaining something of his self-control. "You, of course, were not aware—I mean my old friend never told you who he really was?"
Her anxious look grew more wistful.
"No, and indeed I never asked," she said. "He was so feeble when I took him to my home out of the storm, and for weeks afterwards he was so dangerously ill, that I thought questions might worry him. Besides it was not my business to bother about where he came from. He was just old and poor and friendless—that was enough for me."
"I hope—I do very much hope," said Sir Francis gently, "that you will not allow yourself to be too much startled—or—or overcome by what I have to tell you. David—he said his name was David, did he not?"
She made a sign of assent. A strange terror was creeping upon her, and she could not speak.