The day that Sam Wright was buried Helena had written to Lloyd Pryor.
She must see him at once, she said. He must let her know when he would
come to Old Chester--or she would come to him, if he preferred. "It is
most important," she ended, "most important." She did not say
why; she could not write of this dreadful thing that had happened.
Still less could she put down on paper that sense of guilt, so
alarming in its newness and so bewildering in its complexity. She was
afraid of it, she was even ashamed of it; she and Lloyd had never
talked about--things like that. So she made no explanation. She only
summoned him with a peremptoriness which had been absent from their
relations for many years. His answer, expected and despaired of, came
three weeks later.
It was early in October one rainy Friday afternoon. Helena and David
were in the dining-room. She had helped him with his lessons,--for it
was Dr. Lavendar's rule that Monday's lessons were to be learned on
Friday; and now they had come in here because the old mahogany table
was so large that David could have a fine clutter of gilt-edged
saucers from his paint-box spread all around. He had a dauby tumbler
of water beside him, and two or three Godey's Lady's Books
awaiting his eager brush. He was very busy putting gamboge on the
curls of a lady whose petticoats, by a discreet mixture of gamboge and
Prussian blue, were a most beautiful green.
"Don't you think crimson-lake is pretty red for her lips?" Helena
asked, resting her cheek on his thatch of yellow hair.
"No, ma'am," David said briefly; and rubbed on another brushful.
Helena put an eager arm about him and touched his ear with her lips;
David sighed, and moved his head. "No; I wasn't going to," she
reassured him humbly; it was a long time since she had dared to offer
the "forty kisses." It was then that Sarah laid the mail down on the
table; a newspaper and--Lloyd Pryor's letter.
Helena's start and gasp of astonishment were a physical pang. For a
long time afterwards she could not bear the smell of David's water-
colors; gamboge, Chinese white and Prussian blue made her feel almost
faint. She took up the letter and turned it over and over, her pallor
changing into a violent rush of color; then she fled up-stairs to her
own room, tearing the letter open as she ran.
Her eyes blurred as she began to read it, and she had to stop to wipe
away some film of agitation. But as she read, the lines cleared
sharply before her. The beginning, after the "Dear Nelly," was
commonplace enough. He was sorry not to have answered her letter
sooner; he had been frightfully busy; Alice had not been well, and
letter-writing, as she knew, was not his strong point. Besides, he had
really expected to be in Old Chester before this, so that they could
have talked things over. It was surprising how long Frederick had hung
on, poor devil. In regard to the future, of course--here the page
turned. Helena gasped, folding it back with trembling fingers: "Of
course, conditions have changed very much since we first considered
the matter. My daughter's age presents an embarrassment which did not
exist a dozen years ago. Now, if we carried out our first arrangement,
some kind friend would put two and two together, and drop a hint, and
Alice would ask questions. Nevertheless"--again she turned a page--
nevertheless, Lloyd Pryor was prepared to carry out his promise if she
wished to hold him to it. She might think it over, he said, and drop
him a line, and he was, as ever, hers, L. P.