The night passed. Now and then the Sister moved noiselessly about, or the doctor came to the bedside, lifted the inert hand, laid it down, and went back to the fire.
Alexina moved from her chair to the window or to the fire and back again. Now and again she knew that she must have slept a little, her head against the table. So the night passed.
The square framed by the window sash was turning grey when there came a movement, and the eyelids of the face on the pillow lifted. Harriet was leaning over before the others, the nurse or doctor, got to the bed, and must have been there when the eyes opened. She must have seen consciousness of her presence in them, too, and possibly questioning, for she spoke rapidly, eagerly, like one who had said the thing over and over in readiness for the moment, though her voice shook. “You said you loved me from your soul, and, living or dead, would go on loving and wanting my love?”
There seemed no wonder in the voice replying, only content. There was even the usual touch of humour in his reply. “And will go on wanting your love,” he said.
“But I am here to tell you how I love you,” she returned.
The room was still, like death. Then in the man’s voice: “Is this pity, Harriet?”
Her voice hurried on. “And how, living or dead, I will go on loving and wanting you.”
It was no pity that trembled in her voice, it was passion. He moved.
After a time he spoke again. It was to call her name, to say it as to himself. This time he knew it was love this woman was talking of, not pity.
“I could not bear it that you should not know,” she hurried on to tell him. “I made them let me come to you.”