I could not help looking at him once or twice, he seemed so absorbed in thought; his dark face looked rigid, his lips firmly closed, and his forehead slightly puckered.
More than once I had puzzled myself over a fancied resemblance of Mr. Hamilton to some picture I had seen. All at once I remembered the subject. It was the picture of a young Christian sleeping peacefully just before he was called to his combat with wild beasts in the amphitheatre: the keeper was even then opening the door: the lions were waiting for their prey. The face was boyish, but still Mr. Hamilton reminded me of him. And there was a picture of St. Augustine sitting with his mother Monica, that reminded me of Mr. Hamilton too. I had called him plain, and Jill thought him positively ugly, but, after all, there was something noble in his expression, a power that made itself felt.
Just then the lines of his face relaxed and softened; he half smiled, looked up, and our eyes met. I was terribly abashed at the thought that he should find me watching him; but, to my surprise, his face brightened, and he roused himself and crossed the room.
'I was dreaming, I think, but you woke me. Are you very tired? Shall I take your place?' But before I could reply his manner changed, and he stooped over the bed, and then looked at me with a smile.
'I thought so. The breathing is certainly less difficult: the inflammation is diminishing. I see signs of improvement.'
'Thank God!' was my answer to this, and before long this hope was verified: the pain and difficulty of breathing were certainly less intense, the danger was subsiding.
Mr. Hamilton went downstairs soon after this, and I settled to my solitary night-watch, but it was no longer dreary: every hour I felt more assured that Susan Locke would be restored to her sister.
Once or twice during the night I crept into Phoebe's room to gladden her heart with the glad news, but she was sleeping heavily and I would not disturb her. 'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,' I said to myself, as I sat down by Susan's bedside. I was very weary, but a strange tumult of thoughts seemed surging through my brain, and I was unable to control them. Gladys's pale face and tear-filled eyes rose perpetually before me: her low, passionate tones vibrated in my ear. 'They have accused him falsely,' I seemed to hear her say: 'Eric never took that cheque.'
What a mystery in that quiet household! No wonder there was something unrestful in the atmosphere of Gladwyn,—that one felt oppressed and ill at ease in that house.
Fragments of my conversation with Mr. Hamilton came unbidden to my memory. How strange that that proud, reserved man should have spoken so to me, that he had suffered his heart's bitterness to overflow in words to me, who was almost a stranger: 'They lay the blame of that poor boy's death at my door, as though I would not give my right hand to have him back again.' Oh, if Gladys had only heard the tone in which he said this, she must have believed and have been sorry for him.