'Surely, sir,' said Alison. 'But I cannot spare you many minutes, for I am wanted.' A look of pain, of harassed anxiety, came into her eyes, which should have been an omen. But Herries did not see it. They began to walk in the garden, on a grass path between yew hedges.
'Have you seen Nancy lately, and is she well?' asked Alison, breaking the silence.
'I never see her,' said Herries, shortly. 'Have you dropped all knowledge of her too?'
'At first we wrote a little,' said Alison, quietly, 'but I am no great hand at letters, sir, and so—and so we grew apart.'
'That's well,' said Herries, abruptly. He chafed at this dull talk, walking at Alison's side, but what to say, where to begin? He stole a look at her. 'Alison,' he cried suddenly, 'your ear hurts. That little monster cut it with the lash; it bleeds.'
'Does it?' said Alison, faintly, putting up her hand.
'Wait—here!' said Herries, eagerly. 'I have a soft silk kerchief.' He noted, with a kind of anguish, the smudge of blood upon a little curl, and yet thought himself cool enough to wipe it away unmoved. But the touch, the contact, the terrible sweetness of approach were all too much. The pent-up tenderness of years would be denied no longer—his empty arms rebelled against their emptiness.
'Ally!' he cried. 'Oh! Ally—oh, my soul!'
For, indeed, it did seem as though, after all these years of deathly trance, his soul had come back to him.
CHAPTER XLVII.