"That she had consumption. That her only hope was to go away. She only stayed on in London for--for," the words choked in his throat, "my sake."
Minutes passed. Through the chinks in the curtains Aliette could see dawn growing and growing. Her mouth ached to comfort him; but she dared not speak. Her eyes ached for tears; but she dared not shed a tear. Superstition tortured her mind--it seemed to her as though, Biblically, their sin had found them out. Then resolutely, remembering the promise sealed by her own lips to the dying, she put superstition from her.
"Not your fault," she said at last. "Not even our fault. Ronnie--believe me--even if she did know that she--that she was very ill--she knew that you and I loved her, that we couldn't, either of us, do without her. She's--she's not going to die. Not with us, both of us, to nurse her--to look after her."
"Alie--you--you believe there's a chance?" He rose from the table; and she saw that the remoteness had gone from his eyes.
"Chance!" she smiled at him. "Chance! It's not a question of chance, man. We'll make her get well."
And with those words, Aliette knew that she had paid a little of her debt to them both.
CHAPTER XXV
1
Miraculously, as it seemed to her comforted son, death stayed its hand from Julia Cavendish.
For three days and nights of morphia she drowsed away the effects of that first hemorrhage. Heron Baynet, returning hot-foot to Harley Street on his secretary's telegram, insisted--despite the fact that he was a consultant--on ousting Dr. Redbank; on taking over the entire conduct of the case in person.