He stood up and faced her, careless whether or not the stress of inward conflict in his eyes belied the calm gravity of his words.
"Perhaps you are stronger than I," he said. "We must meet again, tomorrow or next day. Some of the young people will be returning soon. If you wish it, I will not tell them I have seen you."
"It is for you to decide, Stephen."
She seemed to be quite hopeless, resigned to any twist or turn of fate. Here was a broken woman, indeed, and the spectacle was torturing. He had never understood her as a bright young girl and a bride of nineteen. He did not understand her now. A man of his oak-like qualities could not grasp the nature of a woman who bent as a reed before each puff of wind.
It was hard to utter even a commonplace farewell. She held him by her very helplessness. But the rapid trot of a horse caught his ears, and, whilst he stood irresolute, he saw Constance alighting from the dog-cart. His wife looked out, too. They heard their daughter laughingly regret that she could not ask Mr. Pyne to luncheon—meals were irregular events just then.
Brand felt a timid hand grasping his, and a choking sob proclaimed that Constance's mother was crying.
He stooped with a motion that was almost a caress.
"Don't cry," he said. "I cannot bear it."
"I can bear anything, Stephen," she sobbed, "if only you will let me stay with you forever."
"Do you mean that, Nanette?" he gasped, incredulously.