Taking her share in the remarks that followed, Miriam marvelled. Unqualified and unprepared, utterly undeserving as she felt, she was aware, within the controlled tone of her slight words, of something that moved her, as she listened, to a strange joy. It was within her, but not herself; an unknown vibrating moulding force. …
When Sissie went away with the tea-things, Mr. Gunner came to the bedside to take leave. Sitting on the edge of the bed near Miriam’s chair he bent murmuring; Miriam rose to go; Mrs. Bailey’s hand restrained her. “I think you know,” whispered Mr. Gunner, “what we are to each other.” Miriam made no reply; there was a golden suffusion before her eyes, about the grey pillow. Mrs. Bailey was clutching her hand. She bent and kissed the hollow cheek, receiving on her own a quick eager mother’s kiss, and turned to offer her free hand to Mr. Gunner who painfully wrung it in both his own. Outside in the darkness St. Pancras clock was striking. She felt a sudden sadness. What could they know of each other? What could any man and woman know of each other?
When Mr. Gunner had gone and she was alone with Mrs. Bailey, the trouble lifted. It was Mrs. Bailey who had permitted it, she who would steer and guide, and she was full of wisdom and strength. She could unerringly guide anyone through anything. But how had she arrived at permitting such an extraordinary thing?
“Poor boy,” sighed Mrs. Bailey.
“Why poor boy? Nothing of the sort,” said Miriam.
“Well, it’s a comfort to me you think that; I’ve worried meself ill over him. I’ve been keeping him off for over a twelvemonth.”
“Well, it’s all settled now so you needn’t worry any more.”
“It’s his age I look to; he’s only two and twenty,” flushed Mrs. Bailey.
“He looks older than that.”