She turned on her pillow and abandoned herself to terror—a terror beyond the decencies. She was wrenched and torn with weeping, frantic in her fear for him. He might suffer.... He might be exposed to bodily torture.... He might die ... be gone from her for ever—for ever—like a candle blown out.... In six months—in three months—there might be no Justin—anywhere—any more....
And at that she bit and tore at her wrist lest she should scream aloud.
It was a madness that spent itself at last, as such things must, leaving her sane and heavy-eyed and ashamed. And in that desolate lull she could hear the voice, cold, disloyal, of another subtler fear—
Suppose—suppose he did not go?...
When Aunt Adela came back an hour later, stuffed to bursting with gossip that must on no account be imparted to the invalid, she found Laura sitting up in bed, her eyes quick and intelligent, her passivity a thing of the past.
She acclaimed her.
“My dear, you’re better! You’ve got quite a colour.”
“Yes.” Laura touched the paper beside her. “You ought to have told me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Aunt Adela looked guilty.
“Did I leave——? I never meant——My child, you weren’t fit——Laura, what are you doing?”