“If I ever hurt you, dear, God knows it's because I cannot help it,” she said. But before the other could reply, a telegraph boy entered with a telegram. Name of Defries. Ella tore it open, with a spasm of anticipation, half fear, half hope, that it came from Roderick. But it ran:—
“Your coming a joy. Your uncle dangerously ill. Is crying
for you. Agatha.”
Speechless she handed the paper to her aunt. Lady Milmo glanced at it.
“Doesn't it all work out for the best, dear?” she said gently. “Agatha Lanyon would not have wired if to-morrow's affair had not been broken off.”
“How did she know?” asked Ella, with white lips.
“Why, I sent them a message,” said Lady Milmo.
Ella bade her good-bye again. The parlour maid shut the cab-door and gave the word “Waterloo” to the driver. The cab drove off, and then Ella, spreading out the crumpled telegram, broke for the first time into a flood of passionate tears.
But some moments later she called to the driver,—
“I fancy the servant made a mistake. It is Liverpool Street I want to go to.”
And to Liverpool Street was she driven.