"Its meaning," he said, "has nearly broken my heart. If I have done wrong, I have been terribly punished, and even you, Blake, might be merciful now. My poor darling's mind is gone!"
There was a pause, a pause of mute consternation on Val's part. Mr. Wyndham bent over Nathalie, with that look of unspeakable tenderness that made his face something new to Val—a face entirely new.
"My darling, you are tired, I know," he said, "and want to go to bed. Don't you, Natty?"
The old name! It brought a pang to Val's heart to hear it. Paul Wyndham spoke to her as he would have spoken to a child of three years; and Val thought he would sooner she were indeed lying under the sods in the cemetery than see her as he saw her now—dead in life.
"Yes, Paul," she said, rising wearily, but at once.
"Or, perhaps," Mr. Wyndham said, looking at her thoughtfully, "you would like to sing before you go. You told me the other day, you know, you always slept better if you sang before going to bed."
"Oh, yes!" Nathalie said, her face lighting suddenly with animation. "What shall I sing, Paul?"
"Anything you like, my dearest."
He led her to the piano, and opened it, while she took her seat on the stool, and ran her fingers lightly over the keys at random. Val Blake closed his eyes to listen. How long—how long ago it seemed since he had heard Nathalie Marsh's melodious voice ringing through the cathedral-aisles! The thin fingers wandered off into a plaintive little prelude, that had something wild and melancholy in its wailing minor key. The song was as sadly-sweet as the air, and the voice that sung was full of pathos.