Jane Peartree turned her eyes away, and sighed heavily, while Adèle stepped to the side of the chair, and adjusted the pillows behind her head.
‘Her life was unhappy,’ Sutherland, continued, ‘and her death was very pitiful. She had just this lady’s eyes, her hair, even something of her voice. If a human being could rise from the grave, I should say this lady was the same; that I know is impossible. Ah! if she only lived—if I could only see her again—if I could only tell her of what has passed since she died!’
As he spoke, he quietly watched the invalid, and saw that she was still greatly agitated. Eager to spare her pain, though still strangely curious and suspicious, he changed the conversation, and talked lightly for some minutes to Adèle and Sister Ursula. Finally he glanced towards the door, and held out his hand to the invalid.
‘Good-night,’ he said.
‘Good-night, sir,’ said Jane Peartree, not turning her face again.
‘Good-night, Adèle,’ he said, smiling.
‘Good-night, monsieur,’ answered Adèle, looking at him with bright, almost worshipping eyes; then, lifting his hand to her lips, she kissed it gently.
Accompanied by Sister Ursula, Sutherland descended to the lower part of the house, and entered a small sitting-room, or office, reserved for the superior’s private use.
‘Tell me something more of your invalid,’ he said quickly. ‘I feel rather interested in her. What did you say was her name?’
‘Jane Peartree.’