"For God's sake come to me!" (this abrupt note began) "every second is an age of agony till I see you. I thought you were dead—as Heaven is my witness, I did, or I should never have come here! By the memory of all the happy days we have spent together, by the memory of your dead father, I conjure you be silent, and come to me at once!
"H."
The note had neither date, address, nor signature, save that one capital letter, but when it was folded and in the envelope, she wrote the address:—"Miss W. Rose, —— House, Queen Street, Speckport."
Then, rising, she exchanged the crumpled robe in which she had slept for one of plain black silk, hastily thrust her hair loose into a chenille net, put on a long black silk mantle, a bonnet and thick brown vail, placed the letter in her pocket, and went down stairs. There was no possibility of leaving the house unseen; Mrs. Hill heard her opening the front door and came out of the dining-room. Her eyes opened like full moons at the sight of the street costume, and the young lady's white, resolute face.
"My patience, Miss Olive, you're never going out?"
"Yes," Miss Henderson said, constraining herself to speak quietly. "My head aches, and I think a walk in the air will do it good. I will be back directly."
"But, do take something before you go. Some tea, now, and a little bit of toast."
"No, no! not any, thank you, until I come back."
She was gone even while she spoke; the thick vail drawn over her face, her parasol up, screening her effectually. Catty Clowrie, watching her from the window, would have given considerable to follow her, and see where she went. She had little faith in that walk being taken for the sake of walking; some covert meaning lay hidden beneath.
"I declare to you, Catty," exclaimed Mrs. Hill, coming back, "she gave me quite a turn! She was as white as a ghost, and those big black eyes of hers looked bigger and blacker than ever. She is turning bilious, that's what she's doing."
Miss Henderson walked to Queen Street by the most retired streets, and passed before the hotel, where Major and Mrs. Wheatly boarded. She had some idea of putting the letter in the post-office when she started, but in that case Miss Rose would not receive it until evening, and how could she wait all that time, eating out her heart with mad impatience? There was a man standing in the doorway of the ladies' entrance, a waiter, and quite alone. With her vail closely drawn over her face, Miss Henderson approached him, speaking in a low voice: