“You have not changed,” he said, with grave tenderness. “You are still the same sweet flower-like woman that was my wife. And I have not changed. I have longed for you all through these bitter, lonely years. Do you know why I left Fulminster?”
“No,” murmured Yvonne.
“Because it grew unbearable—without you. I thought a changed scene and new responsibilities would fill my thoughts. I was mistaken. And added to my want of you was remorse for harshness in that terrible hour.”
“I have only thought of your kindness, Everard,” said Yvonne, with tears in her eyes. His emotion impressed her deeply with a sense of his suffering.
He rose, came forward and bent over her chair.
“Will you come back with me, Yvonne?”
She would have given worlds to be away; to have, at least, a few hours to consider her answer. He expected it at once. Feminine instinct desperately sought evasion.
“I shall be of no use to you. I can’t sing any more. Listen.”
She turned sideways in her chair, and drawing back her head far from him, began, with a smile, the “Aria” of the Angel in the Elijah. The grave man drew himself up, shocked to the heart. He had not realised what the loss of her voice meant. Instead of the pure dove-notes that had stirred the passion of his manhood, nothing came from her lips but toneless, wheezing sounds. She stopped, bravely tried to laugh, but the laugh was choked in a sob and she burst into tears.
“Come back with me, my darling,” he said, bending down again. “I will love you all the more tenderly.”