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thought, chiefly mental, those of a Lady Egeria. She might or might not be good, in the vulgar sense. She was an agreeable woman, an amusing companion, very suggestive, inciting, animating; and her past history must be left as her own. Did it matter to him? What he saw was bright, a silver crescent on the side of the shadowy ring. Were it a question of marrying her!—That was out of the possibilities. He remembered, moreover, having heard from a man, who professed to know, that Mrs. Warwick had started in married life by treating her husband cavalierly to an intolerable degree: 'Such as no Englishman could stand,' the portly old informant thundered, describing it and her in racy vernacular. She might be a devil of a wife. She was a pleasant friend; just the soft bit sweeter than male friends which gave the flavour of sex without the artful seductions. He required them strong to move him.

      He looked at last on the green walls of the Priory, scarcely supposing a fair watcher to be within; for the contrasting pale colours of dawn had ceased to quicken the brilliancy of the crescent, and summer daylight drowned it to fainter than a silver coin in water. It lay dispieced like a pulled rag. Eastward, over Surrey, stood the full rose of morning. The Priory clock struck four. When the summons of the bell had gained him admittance, and he heard that Mrs. Warwick had come in the night, he looked back through the doorway at the rosy colour, and congratulated himself to think that her hour of watching was at an end. A sleepy footman was his informant. Women were in my lord's dressing-room, he said. Upstairs, at the death-chamber, Dacier paused. No sound came to him. He hurried to his own room, paced about, and returned. Expecting to see no one but the dead, he turned the handle, and the two circles of a shaded lamp, on ceiling and on table, met his gaze.

      CHAPTER XX

      DIANA A NIGHT-WATCH IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH

      He stepped into the room, and thrilled to hear the quiet voice beside the bed: 'Who is it?'

      Apologies and excuses were on his tongue. The vibration of those grave tones checked them.

      'It is you,' she said.

      She sat in shadow, her hands joined on her lap. An unopened book was under the lamp.

      He spoke in an underbreath: 'I have just come. I was not sure I should find you here. Pardon.'

      'There is a chair.'

      He murmured thanks and entered into the stillness, observing her.

      'You have been watching . . . . You must be tired.'

      'No.'

      'An hour was asked, only one.'

      'I could not leave him.'

      'Watchers are at hand to relieve you'

      'It is better for him to have me.'

      The chord of her voice told him of the gulf she had sunk in during the night. The thought of her endurance became a burden.

      He let fall his breath for patience, and tapped the floor with his foot.

      He feared to discompose her by speaking. The silence grew more fearful, as the very speech of Death between them.

      'You came. I thought it right to let you know instantly. I hoped you would come to-morrow'

      'I could not delay.'

      'You have been sitting alone here since eleven!'

      'I have not found it long.'

      'You must want some refreshment . . . tea?'

      'I need nothing.'

      'It can be made ready in a few minutes.'

      'I could not eat or drink.'

      He tried to brush away the impression of the tomb in the heavily- curtained chamber by thinking of the summer-morn outside; he spoke of it, the rosy sky, the dewy grass, the piping birds. She listened, as one hearing of a quitted sphere.

      Their breathing in common was just heard if either drew a deeper breath. At moments his eyes wandered and shut. Alternately in his mind Death had vaster meanings and doubtfuller; Life cowered under the shadow or outshone it. He glanced from her to the figure in the bed, and she seemed swallowed.

      He said: 'It is time for you to have rest. You know your room. I will stay till the servants are up.'

      She replied: 'No, let this night with him be mine.'

      'I am not intruding . . .?'

      'If you wish to remain . . .'

      No traces of weeping were on her face. The lampshade revealed it colourless, and lustreless her eyes. She was robed in black. She held her hands clasped.

      'You have not suffered?'

      'Oh, no.'

      She said it without sighing: nor was her speech mournful, only brief.

      'You have seen death before?'

      'I sat by my father four nights. I was a girl then. I cried till I had no more tears.'

      He felt a burning pressure behind his eyeballs.

      'Death is natural,' he said.

      'It is natural to the aged. When they die honoured . . .'

      She looked where the dead man lay. 'To sit beside the young, cut off from their dear opening life . . . !' A little shudder swept over her. 'Oh! that!'

      'You were very good to come. We must all thank you for fulfilling his wish.'

      'He knew it would be my wish.'

      Her hands pressed together.

      'He lies peacefully!'

      'I have raised the lamp on him, and wondered each time. So changeless he lies. But so like a sleep that will wake. We never see peace but in the features of the dead. Will you look? They are beautiful. They have a heavenly sweetness.'

      The desire to look was evidently recurrent with her. Dacier rose.

      Their eyes fell together on the dead man, as thoughtfully as Death allows to the creatures of sensation.

      'And after?' he said in low tones.

      'I trust to my Maker,' she replied. 'Do you see a change since he breathed his last?'

      'Not any.'

      'You were with him?'

      'Not in the room. Two minutes later.'

      'Who . . .?'

      'My father. His niece, Lady Cathairn.'

      'If our lives are lengthened we outlive most of those we would have to close our eyes. He had a dear sister.'

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