Some time had passed before they went in softly, hand in hand, to where Oldroyd sat by his patient’s head.
The doctor did not look in the least surprised, but nodded his head as if it was exactly what he had expected, and, after bending down over Alleyne for a moment, he left the room.
And so it was, that when reason began to resume its seat in Moray Alleyne’s mind, his eyes rested upon the pale, careworn face of Glynne. For she had stayed. There was no question of her leaving The Firs while the patient was in danger, and when the peril seemed past she still stayed, to glide large-eyed, pale and patient about the quiet chamber, Mrs Alleyne giving up to her, as her hand smoothed the pillow and lent support, when, feeble as an infant, Moray lay breathing the summer breeze which came perfumed through the pines.
It was when speech had returned that Glynne sat near him one evening, watching his white face with its grey silken hair, and the heavy beard which had been spared by the doctor when his patient was at the worst.
Neither had spoken for some time, but gazed, each with a strange yearning, in the other’s eyes. For it had been coming for days, and instinctively they knew that it must come that night—the end, and with it a long farewell, perhaps only to meet again upon the further shore.
Glynne was the first to speak, and it was in a whisper.
“Moray, when I knew that you were stricken down, I prayed that I might come to you, and struggle with the deadly shade to save your life.”
He looked at her with a wistful gaze, and his lips trembled as he closed his eyes.
“My work is done now. Forgive me for coming. I cannot touch your hand again.”
“No,” he said sadly; and his voice was so low and deep that she bent forward to hear his words, and lowered her face into her hands that she might not let him see the agony and despair working, as she bent to her unhappy fate.