She looked for her letter; it was open upon the table where it had fallen; waving her hand, she said, in a voice hoarse with emotion—
“Leave me, Chayter; I will ring when I require your services.”
The girl glanced at the letter and then at her mistress. She gave a short cough.
“It is growing late, miss!” she said, hesitatingly, “I thought——”
“Leave me!” almost shrieked the haughty beauty, stamping her foot violently.
The girl dropped a hurried curtsey, and slunk swiftly out of the room.
She had been witness to small displays of irritability, but never to such an ebullition of temper as this.
When alone, Helen strode to the door and locked it. She threw herself into her chair, and again pressed her beating temples with her hands.
“Is he mad?” she murmured. “Fly with him and to India! How selfish—how unreasonable!”
He asked for a sacrifice as the test of her love; but what a sacrifice! She loved him—he ought to know that. What had she not done to give him proofs of it? If the proofs he had already received were insufficient, what could suffice? Not even the very sacrifice he called upon her to make. He had spoken of sacrifices, he had reminded her of their mutual vow, but now he sought to make her crown those cumulative sacrifices by inducing her to fling away all personal considerations, and follow his fortunes—to minister to his happiness by the surrender of her own.