Then she found the matches and struck one; and, keeping her face downcast, lighted, with fingers that shook violently, the two candles on the little table by the fire. She must just be natural and ordinary, she kept on telling herself. Then with another fierce effort of will she began to speak, lifting her eyes to his face as she did so.
“Auntie’s just fallen …” (her voice died suddenly for an instant, as she saw him looking at her)—then she finished—“just fallen asleep. Will … you come up presently … Laurie?”
Every word was an effort, as she looked steadily into the eyes that looked so steadily into hers.
It was Laurie—yes—but, good God! …
“You must just kiss her and come away,” she said, driving out the words with effort after effort. “She has a bad headache this evening. … Laurie—a bad headache.”
With a sudden twitch she turned away from those eyes.
“Come, Laurie,” she said. And she heard his steps following her.
They passed so through the inner hall and upstairs: and, without turning again, holding herself steady only by the consciousness that some appalling catastrophe was imminent if she did not, she opened the door of the old lady’s room.
“Here he is,” she said. “Now, Laurie, just kiss her and come away.”
“My dearest,” came the old voice from the gloom, and two hands were lifted.
Maggie watched, as the tall figure came obediently forward, in an indescribable terror. It was as when one watches a man in a tiger’s den. … But the figure bent obediently, and kissed.