Clare kissed the faded face. She had not so kissed many faces. She put her young, round, soft arms round the woman's neck, and said 'Good-bye.'
'You'll see me again, or hear,' she said.
'There's some words as Alice were fond o' saying time agone, and I'll say 'em to thee, my lass, for I'll not see thee agen, m'appen, and they say my meanin' clearer nor talk o' mine. "The Lord bless thee and keep thee, the Lord make His face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee, the Lord lift up the light of His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace."'
Mrs Hatfield opened the gate for Clare to pass out. Petrovitch did not seem to see her, yet when Clare was on his arm again he said,—
'That woman is marked by Death. She will not live three months. Her heart is broken.'
It was. His words came true.
When the two were once more in the train Clare's silent mood had passed. She would gladly have talked, but the carriage was full, and her companion's place being on the opposite side of the carriage, anything but an occasional word was impossible.
She sat gazing out of the window, and he sat in the opposite corner looking at her fixedly. As they were passing over the bridge to the London terminus he leaned forward suddenly, and she, anticipating some words from his movement, withdrew her eyes from the sun-bathed, rippling river and fixed them on his. There she met such a look of passion, and love, and longing as she had never seen in any man's eyes before; and as she gazed, startled, spell-bound, his voice whispered these words, in a tone too low for any ears but hers, and yet distinct enough for every word to be plainly heard by her, and to make her heart bound responsively. Only these words,—
'Whatever happens, I shall always love you.'
Then he leaned back again. Clare drew a deep breath, and the train stopped at the Charing Cross platform.