Toward night Roland became very restless, and with a distressing effort constantly murmured the word “Denasia.” Mr. Lanhearne thought he understood the position exactly, and he had a very pardonable hesitation in granting the half-made request. But the monotonous imploring became full of anguish, and he finally took his daughter into his councils and asked what ought to be done.
“Denasia ought to be here,” answered Ada. “I have her address. Let Davis go for her.”
“But, my dear! you do not understand that she may––that she is, perhaps, not what we should call a good woman.”
“Dear father, who among us all is good? Even Christ said, ‘Why callest thou Me good? There is none good save one, that is God.’ We know nothing wrong of her with certainty. Why not give her the benefit of the doubt? Are we not compelled to be thus generous with all our acquaintances?”
So Denasia was sent for. She was sitting alone in her comfortless room. The baby was gone away for ever. Thinking of the lonely darkness of the cemetery, with the cold earth piled high above the little coffin, she felt a kind of satisfaction in her own shivering solitude and silence. She was as far as possible keeping with the little form a dreary companionship. Yet she had been expecting Roland and was greatly pained at his apparent neglect.
When Davis knocked at the door she said drearily, “Come in.” She thought it was her husband at last.
“Are you Mademoiselle Denasia?” inquired a strange voice.
A quick sense of trouble came to her; she stood up and answered “Yes.”
“There is a gentleman at our house, Mr. Tresham; he is very ill indeed. He asks for you constantly. Mr. Lanhearne thinks you ought to come to him at once.”