“Yes, with her brother,” Constance repeated.
A minute later, she found an opportunity of saying quietly to Bertha:
“It’s better like that, Bertha; better to say it as if it was quite natural... If you don’t say it yourself ... and they come to hear....”
“Thank you, Constance ... thank you.”
“Oh, Bertha.... I wish I could do something for you!”
“You have helped me as it is.... Thank you.... That’s all that I can say....”
She lay back helplessly in her chair, staring dimly before her. Constance followed her glance. She saw that Van der Welcke had come, very late. He was sitting in the conservatory—where the boys had cleared away the cards after their game, as Grandmamma always expected them to do—sitting a little in the shadow, but still visible. He was bending over towards Marianne, who sat beside him, her face a white patch in the darkness: a frail little black figure making a faint blur in the dim conservatory, where the gas was now turned out. She seemed to be weeping silently, sat crushing her handkerchief. He appeared to be saying something, anxiously and tenderly, while he bent still nearer to her. Then, suddenly, he took her hand, pressed it impulsively. Marianne looked up in alarm. Her eyes met, at the far end of the long drawing-room, the eyes of Aunt Constance, the dull, staring eyes of her mother. She drew away her hand ... and her pale face flushed with a glow of shame....
Grandmamma stood in the middle of the drawing-room, a little sad at the gloom which the recent mourning had cast over her rooms. The children took their leave.
[1] Poor thing!