He was coming, as before, in storm and gloom, to his sister’s home. An impulse of tenderness had moved him to turn aside on his way to his daughter, to visit the lonely old woman.
“It is well you came, for she is ill, and a week ago I hardly thought she would live till your return,” grumbled Rachel Dane, as she admitted him into the narrow hall.
“You should have telegraphed me,” he answered.
“She would not allow it. She said no one cared whether an old woman like her lived or died.”
“She is mistaken. I have neglected her in my selfishness, but I love her dearly,” he said, huskily, adding: “And as for you, Rachel Dane, the sight of you stirs up unpleasant memories, but I hope I see you well?”
“Well and hearty, sir, thanks to you for saving my life that night, and to your sister for giving me a home afterward. But I have tried to repay it by faithful service,” she added, as she ushered him into the lonely sitting-room, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze.
“I thank you for that. She must have had a lonely life since I took my daughter away,” he replied throwing himself in a chair, and stretching his feet to the grateful warmth.
“My daughter! My daughter!” thought Rachel Dane, grimly. “How he would hate me if he knew the truth! And I should never dare to tell him! No, no; I don’t care to be bundled out-of-doors in my old age, when I have wound myself so closely around old Mrs. Flint that she is likely to leave me her property when she dies.”
She bustled about, watching him narrowly, thinking what a handsome man he was still, in spite of his probable fifty years.
Then she inquired if he would not have luncheon before he went up to the sick-room.