"She will be provided for," he said again; and he said it sternly.
"I'm glad," replied the other, with something of a sigh of relief. "I'm glad he thought of that—at the last."
Mr. Purdue asked but a few questions after that; and then set out to do all that was to be done for the dead man. There was to be an inquest; and after that the father had decided to take the son back to the place where he had lived as a boy. Jimmy was not, of course, concerned in that, and the two men parted presently; the one to go back to the solitary life he had lived so long—the other to step forward into the new life that was so strangely opening for him.
Always with that feeling in his mind of the great thing he was doing, Jimmy decided to do it very completely; he would not go near Alice again, nor would he reply to her note. The time was coming when he could stand before her, as he had already suggested, and would let her know of this thing he had done; the time when he would very beautifully, as he felt, go out of her presence for ever, leaving an ineffaceable memory behind him, to be treasured by her while she lived.
He was hugging that thought to himself, and was deciding that he would go and see Moira, and tell her what her fate was to be; and he had lingered over it a little until the day had grown dark; when he was thrown a little off his balance by Moira coming to him. He was sitting at his desk—not working, but with the circle of light from his lamp falling upon his brooding face, when she came softly in, and stood within the door, looking at him. Just so once before she had seen him, on a night when he was to have spoken a word to her that should have changed the current of their lives; just so she saw him now, for a moment, before he moved, and rose, and came towards her.
"You wished to see me?" She stood still in the shadows of the room; it was strange, he thought, that she made no attempt to take his hand. For his part, he found himself looking at her with a new feeling—a feeling of wonder. She stood here so quiet and calm—apparently so perfectly self-possessed. His notion of a possible interview had been that it would be a thing of tears and lamentations; that she would be bowed at his feet. Not, to do him justice, that he desired that; it merely fitted in with his idea of what was right under the circumstances. And here she was, asking calmly if he wished to see her.
"Yes," he replied, a little awkwardly. "You had my message—you know what has happened?"
She nodded slowly; she kept her eyes fixed upon his; she seemed to be waiting breathlessly for something he was to say. "Charlie's dead," she said; "and I suppose he sent a message to me."
Jimmy set a chair for her, but she did not seem to notice it. She watched him as he moved, and her eyes were on his face when he turned again to her. Her impatience was shown by the fact that she said again, in the same quick whisper: "He sent a message for me?"
"Yes." Jimmy felt that the interview was not arranging itself in the proper way at all. "He told me—told me everything about—about you; he sent for me on purpose."