“And you saw her then?”
“Yes; I can never, never forget her poor, mournful face, never, never.” Catharine bowed her head, and a shiver ran through her frame, while two or three tears forced themselves through the hands, which she pressed over her eyes.
“Tell me more of her.”
“There is nothing to tell. She seldom spoke, seldom lifted her great, mournful eyes from the floor. I heard her once call the names I have mentioned; but I think she was very ill then, and did not know what she was saying.”
“Was it when she was dying?”
“I don’t know. I remember seeing her dead, and carried out in her coffin; but that is all. Indeed, indeed, I can tell you no more.”
Catharine’s voice grew sharp with the struggle of her anguish. These questions tortured her.
Mrs. Oakley was terrified by the pale contractions of that face. Never had she witnessed anguish so terrific and so still.
“And De Marke could leave her to die without a word—could do this, and with the guilt on his soul come here with protest—no, no, not with protestations—crafty and careful, he looked love, but never talked of it. I cannot point out a single word of affection, and yet there was love in every look, every tone of his voice. Oh! I cannot think of it with patience.”
“And you know that this man loves you?” asked Catharine, a little hoarser than before.