For some time the low murmuring continued, then all grew still as death.
She waited awhile, then fearful that the lady had fainted again, opened the door and went softly in.
Everard Dawn lay still and silent, just faintly breathing, as before, and Mrs. Varian’s dark head was bent down, resting upon the patient’s hand.
She motioned Janetta to her side, saying, gently:
“You may share my vigil, Janetta, and because I know this seems strange to you, I will confide in you. We loved each other very dearly once, this man and I, but a wicked woman came between us and wrecked my happiness. I tried to hate him, but now that he is dying, the old love rises in me again, and my heart is breaking.”
That was all; but she knew she was sure of the other woman’s sympathy.
Janetta might marvel at the utter breaking down of the proudest woman she had ever known, but she would love her better for her constancy and her womanly tenderness.
So they kept their lonely vigils by the sufferer, who for twenty-four hours gave no sign of knowing aught, until they began to fear that he would pass into the other world without a sign or token to those left on earth.
Mrs. Flint had been told that an old friend of her brother would help to nurse him; but when she saw that it was Mrs. Varian, she was filled with secret wonder that found expression in the words:
“He never told me that he knew you, madame; but I do not see how he could have forgotten one like you.”