Cicely's eyes filled with tears. She hurried away from him without another word or glance.
The fateful morning dawned. Walden had parted from Maryllia the previous night, promising himself that he would see her again before she passed into the surgeon's hands,—but Forsyth would not permit this.
"She does not wish it, John,"—he said—"And she has asked me to tell you so. Stay away from the Manor—keep quiet in your own house, if you feel unable to perform your usual round of work. It will be best for her and for you. I will let you know directly the operation is over. Santori is already here. Now"—and he gave Walden's hand a close and friendly grip—"steady, John! Say your prayers if you like,—we want all the help God can give us!"
The door opened and closed again—he was gone. A great silence,—a horrible oppression and loneliness fell upon Walden's heart. He sank into his accustomed chair and stared before him with unseeing eyes,- -mechanically patting his dog Nebbie while gently pushing the animal back in its attempts to clamber on his knee.
"My God, my God!" he muttered—"What shall I do without her?"
Someone opened the door again just then. He started, thinking that
Forsyth had returned perhaps to tell him something he had forgotten.
But the tall attenuated form that confronted him was not that of
Forsyth. A look of amazed recognition, almost of awe, flashed into
his eyes.
"Brent!" he cried,—and he caught at the pale hands extended to him,—hands like those of a saint whose flesh is worn by fasting and prayer;—then, with something of a sob, exclaimed again—"Harry! How—why did you come?"
Brent's eyes met his with a world of sympathy and tenderness in their dark and melancholy depths.
"I have come,"—he said,—and his musical voice, grave and sweet, trembled with deep feeling—"because I think this is your dark hour, John!—and because—-perhaps—-you may need me!"
And John, meeting that sad and steadfast gaze, and shaken beyond control by his pent-up suffering and suspense, suddenly fell on his knees.