There was a little silence and then, her severity passing to melancholy reproof, Madame von Marwitz said: "Did we not, long since, speak of this, Karen? Have you forgotten? Can you so wound me once again? Only my child's grief can excuse her. It is a sorrow to see your life in ruins; I had hoped before I died to see it joyous and secure. It is a sorrow to know that you have maimed yourself; that you are tied to an unworthy man. But how could it be a trouble to me to have you with me? It is a consolation—my only consolation in this calamity. With me you shall find peace and happiness again."
She laid her hand on Karen's head. Karen put her hand to her lips.
"There. That is well," said Madame von Marwitz with a sigh, bending to kiss her. "That is my child. Tante is sad at heart. It is a heavy blow. But her child is welcome."
When she had gone Karen lay, her face in the billows of the bed, while she fixed her thoughts on Tante's last words.
They became a sing-song monotone. "Tante is sad at heart. But her child is welcome. It is a heavy blow. But her child is welcome."
After the anguish there was a certain ease. She rested in the given reassurance. Yet the sing-song monotone oppressed her.
She felt presently that her hat, wrenched to one side, and still fixed to her hair by its pins, was hurting her. She unfastened it and dropped it to the floor. She felt too tired to do more just then.
Soon after this the door opened and Mrs. Talcott appeared carrying a candle, a can of hot water, towels and sheets.
Karen drew herself up, murmuring some vague words of welcome, and Mrs. Talcott, after setting the candle on the dressing-table and the hot water in the basin, remarked: "Just you lie down again, Karen, and let me wash your face for you. You must be pretty tired and dirty after that long journey."
But Karen put her feet to the ground. They just sustained her. "Thank you, Mrs. Talcott. I will do it," she said.