The man could not say anything. He could do his duty grimly, but when the moment came he could not put it into words. He sank down on the chair Charlie had left, and put down his face on the pillow, his large frame shaken by sobs which he could not restrain.
These sobs made Mrs. Kingsward forget the meaning of this communication altogether. She put her hands upon him trying to raise his head. “Edward! Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry! I have never seen you cry in all my life. Edward, for goodness’ sake! You will kill me if you go on sobbing like that. Oh, Edward, Edward, I never saw you cry before.”
Moulsey had darted forward from some shadowy corner where she was and gripped him by the arm.
“Stop, sir—stop it,” she cried, in an authoritative whisper, “or you’ll kill her.”
He flung Moulsey off and raised his head a little from the pillow.
“You have never seen me with any such occasion before,” he said, taking her hands into his and kissing them repeatedly.
He was not a man of many caresses, and her heart was touched with a feeble sense of pleasure.
“Dear!” she said softly, “dear!” feebly drawing a little nearer to him to put her cheek against his.
Colonel Kingsward looked up as soon as he was able and saw her lying smiling at him, her hand in his, her eyes full of that wonderful liquid light which belongs to great weakness. The small worn face was all illuminated with smiles; it was like the face of a child—or perhaps an angel. He looked at first with awe, then with doubt and alarm. Had he failed after all in the commission which he had executed at so much cost to himself, and against the doctor’s orders? He had been afraid for the moment of the sight of her despair—and now he was frightened by her look of ease, the absence of all perturbations. Had she not understood him? Would it have to be told again, more severely, more distinctly, this dreadful news?