She said it almost as if apologizing to Mrs. Simcoe, who merely bowed her head.
It was past midnight. It was the very moment when Abel Newt was starting with horror as he saw his own reflection in the glass.
Something yet remained to be said between those two women. Each knew it—neither dared to begin.
Hope Wayne closed her eyes with an inward prayer, and then said, calmly, but in a low voice,
“And, aunty, the young man?”
Mrs. Simcoe took Hope’s face between her caressing hands. She smoothed the glistening golden hair, and kissed her upon the forehead.
“Aunty, the young man?” said Hope, in the same tone.
“Was Lawrence Newt,” answered Mrs. Simcoe.
—It was the moment when Abel sat at his desk writing the name that Mrs. Simcoe had pronounced.
Hope Wayne was perfectly sure it was coming, and yet the word shot out upon her like a tongue of lightning. At first she felt every nerve in her frame relaxed—a mist clouded her eyes—she had a weary sense of happiness, for she thought she was dying. The mist passed. She felt her cheeks glowing, and was preternaturally calm. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her, weeping silently.