So, as she drove slowly past, Francis watched her; I felt more than glad—proud that he should see the face which he had known blooming and young, and which would never be either the one or the other again in this world, and that he should see how peaceful and good it was.
“She is altered strangely.”
I asked, in momentary fear, did he think her looking out of health?
“Oh no—It is not that. I hardly know what it is;” then, as with a sudden impulse, “I must go and speak to Penelope.”
And before I could hinder him, he was at the carriage side.
No fear of a “scene.” They met—oh Max, can any two people so meet who have been lovers for ten years!
It might have been that the emotion of the last few minutes left her in that state when no occurrence seemed unexpected or strange—but Penelope, when she saw him, only gave a slight start;—and then looked at him, straight in the face, for a minute or so.
“I am sorry to see that you have been ill.”
That one sentence must have struck him, as it did me, with the full conviction of how they met—as Penelope and Francis no more—merely Miss Johnston and Mr. Charteris.
“I have been ill,” he said, at last. “Almost at death's door. I should have died, but for Doctor Urquhart and—one other person, whose name I discovered by accident. I beg to thank her for her charity.”