A week had gone by since the Professor’s arrival at the Priory. He was in great pain, but had intervals of respite. He liked, in those intervals, to see his friends. They could scarcely believe that he was dying, for he still seemed so full of interest in the affairs of life, and spoke of the future as if he would be there to see it. One of the most distressing interviews was with Mr. Fullerton, who could not be persuaded that the invalid had but a short time to live. The old man believed that death meant, beyond all question, annihilation of the personality, and had absolutely no hope of meeting again.
“Don’t be too sure, old friend,” said the Professor; “don’t be too sure of anything, in this mysterious universe.”
The weather kept warm and genial, and this was favourable to his lingering among them a little longer. But his suffering, at times, was so great that they could scarcely wish for this delay. Hadria used always to play to him during some part of the afternoon. The robin had become a constant visitor, and had found its way to the window of the sick-room, where crumbs had been scattered on the sill. The Professor took great pleasure in watching the little creature. Sometimes it would come into the room and hop on to a chair or table, coquetting from perch to perch, and looking at the invalid, with bright inquisitive eyes. The crumbs were put out at a certain hour each morning, and the bird had acquired the habit of arriving almost to the moment. If, by chance, the crumbs had been forgotten, the robin would flutter ostentatiously before the window, to remind his friends of their neglected duty.
During the last few days, Hadria had fancied that the Professor had divined Valeria’s secret, or that she had betrayed it.
There was a peculiar, reverent tenderness in his manner towards her, that was even more marked than usual.
“Can’t we save him? can’t we save him, Hadria?” she used to cry piteously, when they were alone. “Surely, surely there is some hope. Science makes such professions; why doesn’t it do something?”
“Ah, don’t torture yourself with false hope, dear Valeria.”
“The world is monstrous, life is unbearable,” exclaimed Valeria, with a despairing break in her voice.
But one afternoon, she came out of the sick-room with a less distraught expression on her worn face, though her eyes shewed traces of tears.
The dying man used to speak often about his wife to Hadria. This had been her room, and he almost fancied her presence about him.