‘Yes,’ said Vincente immediately; ‘but I am in no pain, my dear child. There is no reason, surely, for us to distress ourselves.’
He looked round and smiled.
‘And this good Conyngham,’ he added, ‘carried me like a child.’
Julia was on her knees at the foot of the sofa, her face hidden in her hands.
‘My dear Julia,’ he said, ‘why this distress?’
‘Because all of this is my doing,’ she answered, lifting her drawn and terror-stricken face.
‘No, no!’ said Vincente, with a characteristic pleasantry. ‘You take too much upon yourself. All these things are written down for us beforehand. We only add the punctuation—delaying a little or hurrying a little.’
They looked at him silently, and assuredly none could mistake the shadows that were gathering on his face. Estella, who was holding his hand, knelt on the floor by his side, quiet and strong, offering silently that sympathy which is woman’s greatest gift.
Concepçion, who perhaps knew more of this matter than any present, looked at Concha and shook his head. The priest was buttoning his cassock, and began to seek something in his pocket.
‘Your breviary?’ whispered Concepçion; ‘I saw it lying out there—among the dead.’