But she watched his letters, lynx-eyed for any signs of change, and found plenty. “My dearest Fanny,” “My beloved wife,” became “My dear Fanny,” and her “most loving and affectionate husband,” became “affectionate” and from that zero, as it seemed to her, the thermometer never rose again.
And now at last, after long years, they were to meet, and in spite of her calm exterior she was trembling in every limb as if with ague, and could hardly answer the old man’s restless questions for the dryness in her throat.
“I wonder what he’ll look like, Fanny. I wonder if there will be much change in him.”
“Much change, I should think, sir. Time does not stand still.”
“But his true heart can never change. He was always the best of sons.”
“The very best, father. You could not have desired a better.”
“No, and that’s the index of a man’s character—Does he consider his parents? If that’s right, all the rest follows. Ah, you’re a fortunate woman, Fanny. He has given you a great position. What, did I hear a coach down below?”
“No, father, don’t move. I will warn you in time. Stay, let me arrange your hair. I want him to see you at your best.”
She produced a little pocket-comb, and put back the long white locks on his forehead.
“How cold your hands are. Make up the fire. The room is cheerless compared to my study at home,” he said, shivering.