"But that—that cry," he gasped. A cold shiver ran through him.
"There's no cry; there's nothing but me and old Patsy. Keep up, now. If you're worse, oh, what will the doctor say?"
The glare from the lamp shining through the open window grew dim; the floor of the verandah rose and fell; his arms dropped nerveless to his sides and, with the faint muffled cry still ringing in his ears, Durham went down into oblivion.
Once the veil partly lifted, and he saw, as through a mist, Mrs. Burke standing defiantly before a man who slunk away out of the room while she turned quickly and came to the couch where he was lying and bent over him. As in a dream he felt her cool hand touch his brow and her face come close to him.
"Oh, why? Why?" he heard her whisper. "Why have you come into my life—now—to bring love to me? Better if I were dead; but I cannot let you go, I cannot! Oh, my love, why have you come so late to me?"
Her lips were pressed to his, her arms encircled his neck, and as he thrilled at her touch, at her voice, at her presence, he essayed to answer her. But he had no strength even to move his lips in response to her kiss, no power to raise a hand. It was as though his will no longer had control over his muscles, as though his consciousness were something apart from his body, something floating in space, voiceless, nerveless, motionless, apart from himself, apart from all save the love she had for him, and the love he had for her.
And in the glamour of that love, the bare knowledge that he existed at all faded away, until he was as one enveloped in a mist through which neither sight nor sound could penetrate.
The sunlight was streaming around him when next he remembered. He was lying in a bed in an unfamiliar room. By his side the doctor was standing. His first memory was of the stifled cry which had come to him as he stepped on to the verandah.
"Ah, you're awake again, are you?" the doctor said cheerily. "Well, how do you feel now?"
"Where am I?" Durham asked weakly.