Pete had recovered himself by now, but he did not even glance toward Aunt Hannah. His face was beaming, and his old eyes were shining.
“Miss Billy, Miss Billy, you're an angel straight from heaven, you are—you are! Oh, I'm so glad you came! It'll be all right now—all right! He's in the den, Miss Billy.”
Billy turned eagerly, but before she could take so much as one step toward the door at the end of the hall, Aunt Hannah's indignant voice arrested her.
“Billy-stop! You're not an angel; you're a young woman—and a crazy one, at that! Whatever angels do, young women don't go unannounced and unchaperoned into young men's rooms! Pete, go tell your master that we are here, and ask if he will receive us.”
Pete's lips twitched. The emphatic “we” and “us” were not lost on him. But his face was preternaturally grave when he spoke.
“Mr. Bertram is up and dressed, ma'am. He's in the den. I'll speak to him.”
Pete, once again the punctilious butler, stalked to the door of Bertram's den and threw it wide open.
Opposite the door, on a low couch, lay Bertram, his head bandaged, and his right arm in a sling. His face was turned toward the door, but his eyes were closed. He looked very white, and his features were pitifully drawn with suffering.
“Mr. Bertram,” began Pete—but he got no further. A flying figure brushed by him and fell on its knees by the couch, with a low cry.
Bertram's eyes flew open. Across his face swept such a radiant look of unearthly joy that Pete sobbed audibly and fled to the kitchen. Dong Ling found him there a minute later polishing a silver teaspoon with a fringed napkin that had been spread over Bertram's tray. In the hall above Aunt Hannah was crying into William's gray linen duster that hung on the hall-rack—Aunt Hannah's handkerchief was on the floor back at Hillside.