“He wishes to see you both,” she said, and Fair shuddered and moaned.
They had removed the bloodstained wedding dress and veil, and she wore a long, trailing tea gown of white India silk and lace. Her face was as white as the dress as she lifted it to Mrs. Howard’s, and said pitifully:
“Oh, he is dying, I know! Let us go to him at once.”
But it was not the face of a dying man that looked up to her from the pillow, although ghastly pale and pain-drawn. The eyes were bright with love as they looked up into her own.
They had all withdrawn from the room, leaving only her and her adopted mother. She knelt down by the bed and looked at him with wide brown eyes full of grief and despair.
“My darling!” he murmured, as he met that anguished glance, adding tenderly: “Do not look so frightened. I do not believe that I am going to die. The doctors seemed to have hope, but”—and his eyes turned from her to Mrs. Howard—“I want the marriage to go on at once. It is not best to run any risks.”
Mrs. Howard understood him at once. He was thinking of her darling’s future.
“Bless you, Bayard!” she said tenderly, as she laid her hand on his white brow, and she added: “You are right. The marriage should certainly take place at once—that is, if you can bear the excitement.”
He smiled a faint yet reassuring smile, and asked:
“The minister?”