“She raved for hours last night,” he said, “after the women had got her to bed, and we had raised her out of the comatose state, about saving you from State prison. First she would plead with Tracy, then she would appeal to you to fly, and so backwards and forwards, until she wore herself out. The papers she had got hold of—they must have slipped out of Gedney’s pocket into the sleigh. I suppose you know that I took them back to Tracy this morning?”
Still Horace made no answer, but bent that crushed and vacant gaze upon her face. She marvelled that he could not see she was awake and conscious, and still more that the strength and will to speak were withheld from her. The dreadful pressure upon her breast was making itself felt again, and the painful sound of the labored breathing took on the sombre rhythm of a distant death-chant. Oh, would he never speak! No: still the doctor went on:
“Tracy will be here in a few minutes. He’s terribly upset by the thing, and has gone first to tell the news at the Minsters’. Do you want to see him when he comes?”
“I don’t know what I want,” said Horace, gloomily.
“If I were you, I would go straight to him and say frankly, ‘I have been a damned fool, and a still damneder hypocrite, and I throw myself on your mercy.’ He’s the tenderest-hearted man alive, and this sight here will move him. Upon my word, I can hardly keep the tears out of my eyes myself.”
Jessica saw as through a mist that these two men’s faces, turned upon her, were softened with a deep compassion. Then suddenly the power to speak came to her. It was a puny and unnatural voice which fell upon her ears—low and hoarsely grating, and the product of much pain.
“Go away—doctor,” she murmured. “Leave him here.”
Horace sat softly upon the edge of the bed, and gathered her two hands tenderly in his. He did not attempt to keep back the tears which welled to his eyes, nor did he try to talk. Thus they were together for what seemed a long time, surrounded by a silence which was full of voices to them both. A wan smile settled upon her face as she held him in her intent gaze.
“Take the boy,” she whispered at last; “he is Horace, too. Don’t let him lie—ever—to any girl.”
The young man groaned in spite of himself, and for answer gently pressed her hands. “I promise you that, Jess,” he said, after a time, in a broken voice. He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. The damp roughness of the skin chilled and terrified him, but the radiance on her face deepened.