still weak from her illness, so it seemed wisest to get into bed.

But she had mo

hope or intention of sleep. She sat up in bed, with a shawl round her , certain
that Halena would come. She was in a ferment of pity and fear,—she scarcely knew
why—fear for the young creature she had come to love with all her heart; and she
strained her ears to catch the sound of an opening door. But Helena did not come.
Through her open window Lucy could hear steps along the terrace coming and going—to
and fro. Then they ceased; all sounds in the house ceased. The church clock in the
distance struck midnight, and a little owl close to the house shrieked and wailed
like a human thing, to the torment of Lucy’s nerves. A little later she was aware
of Buntingford coming upstairs, and going to his room on the further side of the
gallery. Then, nothing. Deep silence—that seemed to flow through the house and all
its rooms and passages like a submerging flood. Except!—What was that sound, in the
room next to hers—in Helena’s room? Lucy Friend got up trembling, put on a
dressing-gown, and laid an ear to the wall
between her and Helena. It was a thin wall, mostly indeed a panelled partition,
belonging to an old bit of the house, in which the building was curiously uneven in
quality—sometimes inexplicably strong, and sometimes mere lath and plaster, as
though the persons, building or re-building, had come to an end of their money and
were scamping their work. Lucy, from the other side of the panels, had often heard
Helena singing while she dressed, or chattering to the housemaid. She listened now
in an anguish, her mind haunted alternately by the recollection of the scene in the
drawing-room, and the story told by Geoffrey French, and by her rising dread and
misgiving as to Helena’s personal stake in it. She had observed much during the
preceding weeks. But her natural timidity and hesitancy had forbidden her so far to
draw hasty deductions. And now—perforce!—she drew them. The sounds in the next room
seemed to communicate their rhythm of pain to Lucy’s own heart. She could not bear
it after a while. She noiselessly opened her own door, and went to Helena’s. To her
scarcely audible knock there
was no answer. After an interval she knocked again—a pause. Then there were
movements inside, and Helena’s muffled voice through the door. “Please, Lucy, go to
sleep! I am all right.” “I can’t sleep. Won’t you let me in?” Helena seemed to
consider. But after an interval which seemed interminable to Lucy Friend, the key
was slowly turned and the door yielded. Helena was standing inside, but there was
so little light in the room that Lucy could only see her dimly. The moon was full
outside, but the curtains had been drawn across the open window, and only a few
faint rays came through. As Mrs. Friend entered Helena turned from her, and groping
her way back to the bed, threw herself upon it, face downwards. It was evidently
the attitude from which she had risen. Lucy Friend followed her, trembling, and sat
down beside her. Helena was still fully dressed, except for her hair, which had
escaped from combs and hairpins. As her eyes grew used to the darkness, Lucy could
see it lying, a dim mass on the white pillow, also a limp hand upturned. She seized
the hand and cherished it in hers.“You are so cold, dear! Mayn’t I cover you up and
help you into bed?” No answer. She found a light eiderdown that had been thrown
aside, and covered the prone figure, gently chafing the cold hands and feet. After
what seemed a long time, Helena, who had been quite still, said in a voice she had
to stoop to hear: “I suppose you heard me crying. Please, Lucy, go back to bed. I
won’t cry any more.” “Dear—-mayn’t I stay?” “Well, then—you must come and lie
beside me. I am a brute to keep you awake.” “Won’t you undress?” “Please let me be!
I’ll try and go to sleep. ”Lucy slipped her own slight form under the wide
eiderdown. There was a long silence, at the end of which Helena said: “I’m only—
sorry—it’s all come to an end—here. ”But with the words the girl’s self-control
again failed her. A deep sob shook her from head to foot. Lucy with the tears on
her own cheeks, hung over her, soothing and murmuring to her as a mother might have
done. But the sob had no successor, and presently Helena said faintly—“Good-night,
Lucy. I’m warm now. I’m going to sleep. “Lucy listened for the first long breaths
of sleep, and seemed to hear them, just as the dawn was showing itself, and the
dawn-wind was pushing at the curtains. But she herself did not sleep. This young
creature lying beside her, with her full passionate life, seemed to have absolutely
absorbed her own. She felt and saw with Helena. Through the night, visions came and
went—of “Cousin Philip,”—the handsome, melancholy, courteous man, and of all his
winning ways with the girl under his care, when once she had dropped her first
foolish quarrel with him, and made it possible for him to show without reserve the
natural sweetness and chivalry of his character. Buntingford and Helena riding,
their well-matched figures disappearing under the trees, the sun glancing from the
glossy coats of their horses; Helena, drawing in some nook of the park, her face
flushed with the effort to satisfy her teacher, and Buntingford bending over her;
or again, Helena dancing, in pale green and apple-blossom, while Buntingford leaned
against the wall, watching her with folded arms, and eyes that smiled over her
conquests. It all grew clear to Lucy—Helena’s gradual capture, and the innocence,
the unconsciousness, of her captor. Her own shrewdness, nevertheless, put the same
question as Buntingford’s conscience. Could he ever have been quite sure of his
freedom? Yet he had taken the risks of a free man. But she could not, she did not
blame him. She could only ask herself the breathless question that French had
already asked: “How far has it gone with her? How deep is the wound?” Cynthia and
Georgina Welwyn were dining at Beechmark on the eventful Evening. They took their
departure immediately after the scene in the drawing-room when Geoffrey French, at
his cousin’s wish, gathered Buntingford’s guests together, and revealed the
identity of the woman in the wood. In the hurried conversation that followed,
Cynthia Scarcely joined, and she was more than ready when Georgina proposed to go.
Julian Horne found them their wraps, and saw them off. It Was a beautiful night,
and they were to walk home through the park. “Shall I bring you any news there is
to-morrow?” said Horne from the Doorstep—“Geoffrey has asked me to stay till the
evening. Everybody else of course is going early. It will be some time, won’t it,”—
he Lowered his voice—“before we shall see the bearing of all this?”Cynthia
assented, rather coldly; and when she and her sister were walking
through the moonlit path leading to the cottage, her silence was still marked,
whereas Georgina in her grim way was excited and eager to talk. The truth was that
Cynthia was not only agitated by the news of the evening. She was hurt—bitterly
hurt. could not buntingford have spared her a word in private? She was his
kinswomen, his old and paticular friend, neglectful as he had shown himself during
the war. Had he not only a few weeks before come to ask her help with the trouble-
some girl Whose charge he had assumed? She had theThe sounds in the next room
seemed to communicate their rythm of pain to Lucy's own heart. She could not bear
it after a while.
She noiselessly opened her own door, and went to Helena’s. To her scarcely audible
knock there was no answer. After an interval she knocked again—a pause. Then
there were movements inside, and Helena’s muffled voice through the door. “Please,
Lucy, go to sleep! I am all right.” “I can’t sleep