The woman burst into a passionate fit of hysterical weeping, and sank upon her knees, covering her face with her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and bending lower and lower, till her arms were upon her knees.
Mary spoke to her, knelt beside her, and tried to whisper words of comfort, about resignation and patience, but without avail. Nothing she said appeared to be heard; and at last—weary, hopeless, and suffering, too, from the terrible trouble which had fallen upon the house—she knelt there in silence beside the moaning and sobbing woman, her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed upon vacancy, as she thought of how happy they had all been by comparison a few hours before.
Mary Dillon was startled from her fit of sad musing by the opening of the drawing-room door.
“Claude!” she exclaimed, “I thought you were asleep.”
Her cousin gave a look that was almost reproachful, and came slowly to where Sarah Woodham crouched.
As Claude laid her hand upon the sobbing woman’s shoulder, it was as if the latter had received a shock. She looked up wildly, and hurriedly rose to her feet, pressed her hair back from her eyes, and made a tremendous effort to master the emotion to which she had given way. Then, with a heavy sigh she grew calm, her distorted features resumed their old saddened dreamy expression, and she moved towards the door.
Claude tried to speak to her, and her lips moved, but no words came, for her face began to work, and she was turning away when the woman seized her hand, kissed it passionately, and hurried from the room.
“We are not alone in our suffering, Mary,” said Claude at last; and she drew her cousin to her breast and wept silently upon her shoulder, while Mary gave her the most loving form of consolation that woman can give to woman, the silent pressure that tells of heart beating for heart in sympathetic unison, as they stood together in the darkened room.