There was no answer. He did not move. She came close to him, so that her cheek almost touched his.
“Tell me that you are glad,” she begged. “Don’t argue with me any more. If you do, I shall stop your mouth with kisses. I am not like you, dear! I must have love! I cannot live alone any longer! I have touched the utmost limits of my endurance! I will stay with you! You shall love me! Listen! If you do not, I swear—but no! You will save me from that! Oh, I know that you will! But don’t argue with me! Words are so cold, and I am a woman—and I must love and be loved, or I shall die.... Ah!”
She started round with a little scream. Her eyes, frightened and dilated, were fixed upon the door. On the threshold a little boy was standing in his night-shirt, looking at her with dark, inquiring eyes.
“I want Mr. Matravers, if you please,” he said deliberately. “Will you tell him? He don’t know that I’m here yet! He will be so surprised! Charlie Dunlop—that’s where I live—has the fever, and dad sent me here with a letter, but Mr. Matravers was out when we came, and nurse put me to bed. Now she’s gone away, and I’m so lonely. Is he asleep? Please wake him, and tell him.”
She turned up the lamp without moving her eyes from the little white-clad figure. A great trembling was upon her! It was like a voice from the shadows of another world. And Matravers, why did he not speak?
Slowly the lamp burned up. She leaned forward. He was sitting with his head resting upon his hand, and the old, faint smile parting his lips. But he did not look up! He did not speak to her! He was sitting like a carved image!
“For God’s sake speak to me!” she cried.
Then a certain rigidity in his posture struck her for the first time, and she threw herself on the ground beside him with a cry of fear. She pressed her lips to his, chafed his cold hand, and whispered frantically in his ear! But there was no answer—there never could be any answer. Matravers was dead, and the wine-glass at his side was untasted.
