“I’ll talk to her if you like.”
Anita looked at him intently.
“It’s good of you. She has always listened to you. Since you and I were
children together. Do you remember, Kent? Yes, you talk to her.”
“What’s she saying?” demanded Great-aunt. Her old eyes were bright with
suspicion. “Talking you over, eh? Talk anyone over, my daughter will—my
clever daughter. So clever. Madala thinks so too. ‘Dripping with
brains.’ That’s what Madala said. Made me laugh. Quite true, though.
Hasn’t Madala come yet?”
“Now, look here, Mrs. Serle——” he put his arm round her bent shoulders,
“it’s very foggy, you know, and it’s very late. Nobody could
travel—nobody could come tonight. You’ll believe us, won’t you?”
“Wait! What’s that?” She stood a moment, her finger raised, listening
intently. Then she straightened her bowed body and looked up at him. One
so seldom saw her face lifted, shone upon by any light, that that alone,
I suppose, was enough to change her. For changed she was—her countenance
so wise and beaming that I hardly knew her. “Now I know,” she said, “she
will come. Wait for her, Kent. She will come. I—I hear her coming. She’s
not so far from us. She’s not so far away.”
They stared at each other for a moment, the man and the old woman. Then
her face dropped forward again, downward into its accustomed shadow, as
he said to her—
“It’s too late, Mrs. Serle. She won’t come—now. Not now any more. And
Anita thinks—truly you’re very tired, aren’t you? Now, aren’t you?”
“Very tired,” she quavered.
“I know you are. Won’t you let me help you upstairs?”
“And stay a bit?” she said, clutching at him. “Stay and talk to me?”
“Yes, yes,” he humoured her.
“About Madala?”
He was very white.
“About Madala. Anita, take her other arm. That’s the way.”
They helped her out of the room, and we heard their slow progress up the
stairs.