“Go up to London!” echoed Sir Oliver.
“Yes, if you 'll take me, Uncle dear.”
The old man looked at his wife, who looked helplessly at him. Through the open window came the late, mellow notes of a thrush and the sunshine that flooded the summer garden.
“I am going to send Walter a telegram,” said Stella, moving gently away.
She left the room with the newly awakened consciousness that she was absolute mistress of her destiny. Love, devotion, service, anything she might require from the two old people, were hers for the claiming—anything in the world but guidance and help. She stood alone before the dragons of a world, no longer the vague Threatening Land, but a world of fierce passions and bloody deeds. Herold's words flamed before her: “Unity had given her life for those she loved.” Had she, Stellamaris, a spirit so much weaker than Unity's?
She advanced an eager step or two along the garden walk, clenching her delicate fists, and the fiery dragons retreated backward. She could give, too, as well as Unity, her life if need be. If that was not required, at least whatever could be demanded of her for those she loved. Again she read the letter. Underlying it was tenderest anxiety lest she should be stricken down by the ghastly knowledge. With the personal motive, the intense and omnipotent motive of her sex, unconsciously dominating her, she murmured half articulately:
“He thinks I'm a weak child. I 'll show him that I am a woman. He shall see that I'm not afraid of life.”
So when Walter Herold went home late that night,—the theatre being out of the question, he had stayed at Kilburn until John had been persuaded to go to bed,—he found a telegram from Stellamaris.
“Coming to London to see if I can be of any help. My dear love to John in his terrible trouble. Tell me when I had better come.”
The next day, when they met before the inquest, he showed the telegram to John, who, after glancing at it, thrust it back into his hand with a deprecating gesture.