“Oh! no. The others will sit all night in there, with the doors open between. At daybreak Mrs. Ferrier is coming down, and then I shall go to rest. I am glad you came in.”
“I was passing by with Mr. Schöninger,” he said, “and I asked him to wait for me a moment.”
Her eyes had dropped again while she spoke, seeming too heavy to be lifted; but as the priest said this, she glanced into his face; then, becoming aware that the street-door was open, looked toward it.
Mr. Schöninger stood there motionless.
A change passed over her face, her sadness becoming distress. She rose from her seat and went to him, her hands clasped.
“Mr. Schöninger,” she said, “she was the last person who would have wronged you or any one.”
Then, seeing that he had not come as an accuser, she held out her hands to him.
The night before he had been like one buried alive, and his hand had been against all the world; to-night life had crowded back upon him with its honors, its friendships, its pathos, and this last scene of sorrow and tenderness.
He bent, and kissed the hands she gave him, but did not utter a word, and they parted instantly. Honora returned to the prie-dieu, and, kneeling there, hid her face and began to weep again, and Mr. Schöninger went out to the gate without giving a backward glance.
F. Chevreuse joined him immediately.