The girl had said nothing at all but, having seen her, Constance was athrill; the girl had not been a bearer of bad news, that was sure; she brought some sort of good news! Constance, certain of it, moved nearer to Henry to read what he held. He looked down and read.
"What is it, Henry?"
His muscular reaction, as he read, had drawn the sheet away from her; he recovered himself almost instantly and gave the paper to her; but, in that instant, Constance herself was "prepared." She must have deceived herself the instant before! This bulletin must be something dismaying to what had remained of hope.
"8:35 A.M., Manitowoc, Wis.," she read. "The schooner Anna S. Solwerk has been sighted making for this port. She is not close enough for communication, but two lifeboats, additional to her own, can be plainly made out. It is believed that she must have picked up survivors of No. 25. She carries no wireless, so is unable to report. Tugs are going out to her."
"Two lifeboats!" Constance cried. "That could mean that they all are saved or nearly all; doesn't it, Henry; doesn't it?"
He had read some other significance in it, she thought, or, from his greater understanding of conditions in the storm, he had been able to hold no hope from what had been reported. That was the only way she could explain to herself as he replied to her; that the word meant to him that men were saved and that therefore it was dismaying to him, could not come to her at once. When it came now, it went over her first only in the flash of incredulous question.
"Yes," he said to her. "Yes." And he went out of the room to the outer office. She turned and watched him and then followed to the door. He had gone to the desk of the girl who had brought him the bulletin, and Constance heard his voice, strained and queerly unnatural. "Call Manitowoc on the long distance. Get the harbor master. Get the names of the people that the Solwerk picked up."
He stayed beside the girl while she started the call. "Put them on my wire when you get them," he commanded and turned back to his office. "Keep my wire clear for that."
Constance retreated into the room as he approached. He did not want her there now, she knew; for that reason—if she yet definitely understood no other—she meant to remain. If he asked her to go, she intended to stay; but he did not ask her. He wished her to go away; in every word which he spoke to her, in every moment of their silent waiting, was his desire to escape her; but he dared not—dared not—go about that directly.
The feeling of that flashed over her to her stupefaction. Henry and she were waiting for word of the fate of Uncle Benny and Alan, and waiting opposed! She was no longer doubting it as she watched him; she was trying to understand. The telephone buzzer under his desk sounded; she drew close as he took up his receiver.