“At last!” she exclaimed. Tizzia advanced towards them.
“Yes, we are here. It has been long. But we are here,” said the older man.
“She is asleep. Shall I go to her?”
“No!” answered the older of the two men. “I will go to her.”
The younger man stopped. He looked towards Clarinda. His face was drawn. A great anxiety seemed to bear down upon him. He seemed uncertain as he stood beside Tizzia.
The older man, bent by the weight of his years, strode painfully over to Clarinda. He stood in front of her. Steadily he looked down upon her. Her lips were still parted in a smile. A faint color was spread over her cheeks. To Peter they looked still smooth. He could only see an indefinite change that all the years had planted upon her; he saw her as she was the day she left him. He still remembered the cruelty of her words. They had burnt themselves into his soul, and they came back to him with even as great poignancy as if he had just listened to them.
Clarinda moved. Her hand stretched out in front of her as if she were reaching for something. It fell to her side. The smile went from her face. Peter did not move. Slowly with effort she opened her eyes. The light dazzled her as she looked at the man standing in front of her. At first she did not comprehend, then gradually it broke in upon her. She saw Peter. Her breath came from her in gasps. She could not speak.
Peter said slowly, “I am here. I have brought the boy. I have come for you, Clarinda.”
Clarinda gasped. She could not move. She lay inert in her chair, and heard his words. But she could not comprehend them. To her they were only words. It seemed to her as if some ghost had stepped out of the garden and confronted her. Gradually as if she had been steeped in a tepid bath the drops of perspiration gathered on her face.
Peter did not move, or say anything, but seemed to be waiting. Slowly Clarinda found her voice, which was weak and uncertain. It came from her in a whisper as she stammered.