“He is very ill,” she said, almost under her breath. “Tell me what has happened.”
It was like a dream to her. The tremendous excitement of what had happened in the convent had cut her off from the realisation of what had gone before. Strange as it seemed even to herself, she scarcely comprehended the intimate connection between the two series of events, nor the bearing of the one upon the other. Israel Kafka sank into such insignificance that she had began to pity his condition, and it was hard to remember that the Wanderer was the man whom Beatrice had loved, and of whom she had spoken so long and so passionately. She found, too, an unreasoned joy in being once more by his side, no matter under what conditions. In that happiness, one-sided and unshared, she forgot everything else. Beatrice had been a dream, a vision, an unreal shadow. Kafka was nothing to her, and yet everything, as she suddenly saw, since he constituted a bond between her and the man she loved, which would at least outlast the night. In a flash she saw that the Wanderer would not leave her alone with the Moravian, and that the latter could not be moved for the present without danger to his life. They must watch together by his side through the long hours. Who could tell what the night would bring forth?
As the new development of the situation presented itself, the colour rose again to her cheeks. The warmth of the conservatory, too, dispelled the chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odours of the flowers contributed to restore the lost equilibrium of mind and body.
“Tell me what has happened,” she said again.
In the fewest possible words the Wanderer told her all that had occurred up to the moment of her coming, not omitting the detail of the locked door.
“And for what reason do you suppose that Keyork shut you in?” she asked.
“I do not know,” the Wanderer answered. “I do not trust him, though I have known him so long.”
“It was mere selfishness,” said Unorna scornfully. “I know him better than you do. He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night.”
The Wanderer said nothing, wondering how any man could be so elaborately thoughtful of his own comfort.
“There is no help for it,” Unorna said, “we must watch together.”