Charlotte’s lips stirred faintly.
“The tears ... don’t dry them, Delia.... I like to feel them....”
The two cousins continued to lean against each other without speaking. The ormolu clock ticked out the measure of their mute communion in minutes, quarters, a half-hour, then an hour: the day declined and darkened, the shadows lengthened across the garlands of the Axminster and the broad white bed. There was a knock.
“The children’s waiting to say their grace before supper, ma’am.”
“Yes, Eliza. Let them say it to you. I’ll come later.” As the nurse’s steps receded Charlotte Lovell disengaged herself from Delia’s embrace.
“You’re not too weak, dear? I can send for a coach to take you home.”
“No, no; it would frighten mother. And I shall like walking now, in the darkness. Sometimes the world used to seem all one awful glare to me. There were days when I thought the sun would never set. And then there was the moon at night.” She laid her hands on her cousin’s shoulders. “Now it’s different. By and bye I shan’t hate the light.”
The two women kissed each other, and Delia whispered: “Tomorrow.”