They recognized her at once--heavy
and dim as they were--for he tried to turn his head to kiss her hand
that lay on the pillow beside him. Then we knew that he was saved; and I
saw, for the first time, tears stream down Lady Catharine's worn cheeks.
She could check the evidence of her grief better than that of her joy.
He saw me, too, as I came forward out of the shadow. "Is that you,
Frank?" he said, faintly. "How very good of you to come." We would not
let him speak any more.
On the third day after the change for the better, I was alone with the
invalid. He turned to me suddenly, and spoke in a low voice, but so
steady that it surprised me. "Frank, what have you heard of Constance?"
Had I been arming myself to meet that question--disciplining my voice
and countenance for days, only to fail so miserably at last? I felt
unspeakably angry and self-reproachful when I saw that my face had told
him all.
"When did she die?" He went on in the same measured tone, without taking
his eyes off me. I think he had nerved himself just enough for the
effort, and was afraid of breaking down if he paused.
I could speak now, and told him. I was going on to tell him, too, how
calmly and happily her life had ended (her aunt had written all this to
Lady Catharine), when Guy stopped me--not coldly, but with a hopeless
sadness in his accent very painful to hear.
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