" There were tears on Helene's lashes. "Her
sufferings have been frightful--frightful."
"Cannot I help?" I said thickly. "Cannot I do something?"
She shook her head. She raised her hand timidly to the lapel of my coat,
and suddenly I felt her palm, cool and firm, upon my forehead. It rested
there but an instant.
"You ought not to be here," she said, her voice vibrant with earnestness
and concern. "You ought not to be here. Will you not go--if I ask it?"
"I cannot," I said; "you know I cannot if you stay."
She did not answer that. Our eyes met, and in that instant for me there
was neither joy nor sorrow, sickness nor death, nor time nor space nor
universe. It was she who turned away.
"Have you written him?" she asked in a low voice.
"Yes," I answered.
"She would not have known him," said Helene; "after all these years of
waiting she would not have known him. Her punishment has been great."
A sound came from the bedroom, and Helene was gone, silently, as she had
come.
* * * * * * *
I must have been dozing in the fauteuil, for suddenly I found myself
sitting up, listening to an unwonted noise. I knew from the count of the
hoof-beats which came from down the street that a horse was galloping in
long strides--a spent horse, for the timing was irregular. Then he was
pulled up into a trot, then to a walk as I ran to the door and opened it
and beheld Nicholas Temple flinging himself from a pony white with
lather.
Pages:
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751