Ingram rang.
“Paterson,” said Mrs. Lavender, when the tall and grave woman appeared, “ask Mrs. Lavender if she can come here for a few minutes.”
Ingram looked at the old woman to see if she had gone mad, and then, somehow, he instinctively turned to the door. He fancied he knew that quick, light step. And then, before he well knew how, Sheila had come forward to him with her hands outstretched and with something like a smile on her pale face. She looked at him for a second; she tried to speak to him, but there was a dangerous quivering of the lips, and then she suddenly burst into tears, and let go his hands and turned away. In that brief moment he had seen what havoc had been wrought within the past two or three days. There were the same proud and handsome features, but they were pale and worn, and there was a piteous and weary look in the eyes that told of the trouble and heart-rending of sleepless nights.
“Sheila,” he said, following her and taking her hand, “does any one know of your being here?”
“No,” she said, still holding her head aside and downcast; “no one. And I do not wish any one to know. I am going away.”
“Where?”
“Don’t you ask too much, Mr. Ingram,” said the old lady, from amid her cushions and curtains. “Give her that ammonia—the stopper only. Now, sit down, child, and dry your eyes. You need not be ashamed to show Mr. Ingram that you knew where you ought to come when you left your husband’s house. And if you won’t stop here, of course I can’t compel you, though Mr. Ingram will tell you you might do worse.”
“Sheila, why do you wish to go away? Do you mean to go back to the Lewis?”
“Oh, no, no!” she said, almost shuddering.
“Where do you wish to go?”