In her face there was neither
sorrow nor terror, and he could see that there was no thought in her
brain, and that all the life in her body was gathered into her
swollen, labouring heart. And as he looked at her he was pierced with
a great pang of pity.
She stood there so, supporting herself by her hands for about a
minute. He was certain that no sense of his presence reached her
across the gulf of her unknown and immeasurable anguish.
At last she drew her hands from the table, first one, then the other,
slowly, as if she were dragging a weight; her body swayed, and he
sprang to his feet with an inarticulate murmur, and held out one arm
to steady her. At his touch her perishing will revived and her
faintness passed from her. She put him gently aside and went slowly
out of the room.
As he turned to the table the five words of her telegram stared him in
the face: "Your father died this morning."
It would have been horrible if he had told her.
His first thought was for her; and he thanked Heaven that had tied his
tongue. Then, try as he would to realize her suffering, it eluded him;
he could only feel that a moment ago she had been with him, standing
there and smiling, and that now he was alone. He could still feel her
hand pushing against his outstretched arm. There had been nothing to
wound him in that gesture of repulse; it was as if she had accepted
rather than refused his touch, as if her numbed body took from it the
impetus it craved.
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