"My Richard——"
"Nell—sweetheart—help me—to go to them—just to the door—and then alone——?"
"Yes—yes——"
"Kiss me!"
Her poor, wizened little face glowed like a girl's as she lifted it to his. The years, with their bitterness, dropped from her memory. She did not need to understand more than one thing, that he had been given back to her as he had once been. Nothing mattered now—not even death itself.
"Lean on me, Richard—I am quite strong——"
They went together down the gloomy passage, his arm still about her shoulders. She had need of her boasted strength. At first his weight almost bore her to the ground. But with every step he held himself straighter, freeing himself from her support. At the door of the dining-room he stood upright, only his hands touching her.
He kissed her. Then he went in alone.
A handful of women still sat at the table and talked loudly and incessantly. The rest were helping the men barricade the verandah window. Mrs. Smithers worked with the grim energy of despair, keeping to Tristram's side as though his nearness brought her some comfort. It was she who saw Boucicault first, and in her consternation clutched at her companion's arm.
"Lawks a-mercy!" she whispered. "Look——!"