“Do not fear for me, dear, dear Lotte,” returned Helen, earnestly. “The worst that could have fallen upon me has come to pass, and fate will not persecute me further. I shall return to you and my poor cherub there very soon, be assured.”
“But in pity tell me whither you are going?” cried Lotte, in tears. She had some frightful forebodings.
“To my father’s house!” cried Helen, with a bright eye, and compressed lip.
Before Lotte could recover from the bewilderment into which this announcement flung her, she heard the outer door slam sharply, and she knew that Helen was on her way to fulfil her purpose.
She pressed the little babe to her bosom, and sat down to think about her position, her brother, and, perhaps, Mark Wilton.
While these thoughts were yet passing through Lotte’s brain, Helen Grahame stood before the house from which, in such shame and anguish, she had fled.
She grew sick and faint, and, for a moment, her strength and courage failed her; but she remembered her little child and Lotte’s wan face and thin figure; then her arm was nerved, and she knocked boldly, as of old, at the door.
The porter opened it, but, when he saw who it was who claimed admission, he drew back with an exclamation of surprise. Helen heeded it not, nor did she utter a word to him, but passed through the hall with a proud air, as she had been wont to display when at home, and no shadow rested upon her fair name. As she ascended the staircase, she encountered Whelks, who, upon thus suddenly coming face to face with her, all but fainted. Her step, dignified as it was, made scarcely a sound, and her face, so white and delicate, convinced him that he was confronted by Helen’s apparition.
She fastened her brilliant black eye upon him, and haughtily inquired where the family were.
“In the dinin’ room, Miss,” he gasped.