Both were agitated, but Yram betrayed less of what she felt than my father. He could only bow his head and cover his face with his hands. Yram said, “We are old friends; take your hands from your face and let me see you. There! That is well.”
She took his right hand between both hers, looked at him with eyes full of kindness, and said softly—
“You are not much changed, but you look haggard, worn, and ill; I am uneasy about you. Remember, you are among friends, who will see that no harm befalls you. There is a look in your eyes that frightens me.”
As she spoke she took the wine out of her basket, and poured him out a glass, but rather to give him some little thing to distract his attention, than because she expected him to drink it—which he could not do.
She never asked him whether he found her altered, or turned the conversation ever such a little on to herself; all was for him; to soothe and comfort him, not in words alone, but in look, manner, and voice. My father knew that he could thank her best by controlling himself, and letting himself be soothed and comforted—at any rate so far as he could seem to be.
Up to this time they had been standing, but now Yram, seeing my father calmer, said, “Enough, let us sit down.”
So saying she seated herself at one end of the small table that was in the cell, and motioned my father to sit opposite to her. “The light hurts you?” she said, for the sun was coming into the room. “Change places with me, I am a sun worshipper. No, we can move the table, and we can then see each other better.”
This done, she said, still very softly, “And now tell me what it is all about. Why have you come here?”
“Tell me first,” said my father, “what befell you after I had been taken away. Why did you not send me word when you found what had happened? or come after me? You know I should have married you at once, unless they bound me in fetters.”
“I know you would; but you remember Mrs. Humdrum? Yes, I see you do. I told her everything; it was she who saved me. We thought of you, but she saw that it would not do. As I was to marry Mr. Strong, the more you were lost sight of the better, but with George ever with me I have not been able to forget you. I might have been very happy with you, but I could not have been happier than I have been ever since that short dreadful time was over. George must tell you the rest. I cannot do so. All is well. I love my husband with my whole heart and soul, and he loves me with his. As between him and me, he knows everything; George is his son, not yours; we have settled it so, though we both know otherwise; as between you and me, for this one hour, here, there is no use in pretending that you are not George’s father. I have said all I need say. Now, tell me what I asked you—Why are you here?”