“Yes, father, I am waiting.”
But if he heard, he did not answer at once; and when at last he spoke, it was with difficulty, and like one who labors for breath. His mind, too, seemed wandering, and he said:
“I can’t tell, but if it ever comes to you, promise you will forgive me. I have loved you so much, my darling oh, my darling, promise while I can hear you!”
“Yes, father, I promise,” Reinette replied, knowing nothing to what she pledged herself, thinking nothing except of the white face on the pillow, where the sign of death was written.
“Queenie, are you here?” the voice said again, and she replied, “Yes, father,” while he continued: “I meant to have told you when we reached New York, but cannot now, I am too weak. It is too late, forever too late. Oh Queenie—oh, Margaret, forgive!”
“Is it of mother you wish to tell me?” Reinette asked bending forward eagerly, and fixing her great dark eyes upon him.
“Your mother, child—your mother. Yes—no—don’t speak that name aloud. We’ve left her way over there, or I thought we had. That’s why I was going home—to get away from it, and—if——Queenie, where are you? I can’t see you, child. You are surely here? You are listening?”
“Yes, yes, father, I am here. I am listening,” and the girl’s rigid face and fixed, wide-open eyes showed how intently she was listening.
“Yes, child, that’s right; listen so close that nobody else can hear. We are all alone?”
“Yes, father, all alone; only Pierre is outside, and he understands English so little. What is it, father? What are you going to tell me?”