“Oh, you will be leaving now!” John Gregory cried, as if he had forgotten that she did not belong to Fraternia.
“Yes,” Anna said gently, “I am to return to Spalding in an hour for the night, and I start home from there in the morning.”
“Yes,” he said, “that is right. You must go;” but with the thought all colour left his face, and his breath came hard and fast. She saw the physical change in him then. She had hardly seen it before.
“Can I help you? Can I bring you anything you need?” she asked quickly.
He pointed to a glass on the mantel, and said, smiling faintly:—
“It is so new to make others wait on me. It is not quite easy to lie here and submit to be served,—even by you, Benigna.”
As she brought him the glass, the simple act of service bore with it a peculiar power of suggestion and produced upon Anna herself an effect far beyond its apparent importance; for, as she thus served Gregory in his helplessness, a wave of yearning compassion and pure womanly tenderness broke over her heart. He would lie here for years, perhaps, prostrate, defeated, suffering, and she who had so loved him would go her way and leave him alone and uncomforted! Could it be right?
Before the imperious power of this question all other motives lost their significance.
Gregory had recovered from the sharpest effect of his agitation, and raised his eyes again, full of patient and quiet sorrow.
“Tell me,” she cried low and breathlessly, “shall I stay? I said I wished only to go where was most need of me. Is it here? Oh, I trust you wholly now, John Gregory! If you need my service, I will serve you while we both live.”