Briggs comes with Mr. Grandon's mail. There is a postal from Eugene, who considers the subject unworthy of the compliment of a sealed letter.
"No, a thousand times no! Bore me no more with the folly!"
Floyd's face burns as he thrusts it in Denise's stove to consume.
"Have you heard?" St. Vincent asks, as he enters the room.
"Yes." The tone acknowledges the rest.
"It is all vain, useless, then! Young people are not trained to pay heed to the advice of their elders. My poor, poor Violet!"
The utter despair touches Grandon. He has ceased to fight even for his child.
What impulse governs Grandon he cannot tell then or ever. It may be pity, sympathy, the knowledge that he can fight Violet's battle, insure her prosperity in any case, protect her, and give her happiness, and smooth the way for the dying. Of himself he does not think at all, strangely enough, and he forgets madame as entirely as if she never existed.
"Will you give her to me as my wife?" he asks, in a slow, distinct tone. "I am older, graver, and have a child."
The light that overflows the dying eyes is his reward. It is something greater than joy; it is trust, relief, satisfaction, gratitude intense and heartfelt. Then it slowly changes.