"I fancy he thought Joan Moss would go to him. It has been hard work to build a barrier between him and her that could satisfy, now that he believes you have told her of his being among the living."
"What have you said to him all this time?"
Boswell shifted his position, and Priscilla saw the haggard, careworn look spread over his face. By sudden insight she realized that he looked old, pitiful, and far from well, and her heart filled with sympathy. The half-mystical life was telling upon him, becoming a burden.
"Oh, at first I said the surprise of knowing he lived had made her, made Joan Moss, ill. It took nearly six months to cover that, and I did some good writing during that period. Then I told him there were things to settle; then, fear for his safety overpowered her: dread of being tracked. And since then—well, since then there has been silence. Can you not understand? His pride has asserted itself at last. If she will not communicate with him herself, he will have none of me; none of you. Has he ever said a word about her to—you?"
"Never," Priscilla answered.
"But," Boswell went on, "I notice a change in him; an almost feverish impatience. I fear he doubts me—after all these years!"
"And when he knows?"
The man by the fire shrank deeper in his chair.
"When he knows?" he repeated. "Why, then he will have an opportunity to understand my life-long devotion, my gratitude, my love! That is all."