“Thank you,” she said. He noticed that she continued to stand, and that she was apparently dressed for going out. “That is one reason why I asked you to come. I have not been myself and have seen no one until now. Let me thank you—as only I can—for your noble and gallant attempt to save my husband.”
Her voice did not tremble nor did the glance of her deep eyes waver as she spoke of the dead man, but George felt that he had never seen nor dreamed of such grief as hers.
“I could not do less,” he said hoarsely, for he found it hard to speak at all.
“No man ever did more. No man could do more,” Grace said gravely. “And now, will you do me a great service? A great kindness?”
“Anything,” George answered readily.
“It will be hard for you. It will be harder for me. Will you come with me to the place and tell me as well as you can, how it all happened?”
George looked at her in astonishment. Her eyes were fixed on his face and her expression had not changed.
“It is the only kindness any one can do for me,” she said simply; and then without waiting for any further answer she turned towards the door.
George walked by her side in silence. They left the house and took the direction of the wooded point, never exchanging a word as they went. From time to time George glanced at his companion’s face, wondering inwardly what manner of woman she might be who was able to suffer as she evidently had suffered, and yet could of her own accord face such an explanation of events as she had asked him to give her. In less than ten minutes they had reached the spot. Grace stood a few seconds without speaking, her thin face fixed in its unchangeable look of pain, her arms hanging down, her hands clasped loosely together.
“Now tell me. Tell me everything. Do not be afraid—I am very strong.”