"But surely you have been ill?" I said.
She tapped her foot. It was the first symptom of nervous impatience
that I had observed in her.
"Not in body," she replied curtly. "Tell me all about the funeral."
And I gave her an account of the impressive incidents of the
interment--the stately procession, the grandiose ritual, the symbols
of public grief. She displayed a strange, morbid curiosity as to it
all.
And then suddenly she rose up from her chair, and I rose also, and she
demanded, as it were pushed by some secret force to the limit of her
endurance: "You loved him, didn't you, Mr. Foster?"
It was not an English phrase; no Englishwoman would have used it.
"I was tremendously fond of him," I answered. "I should never have
thought that I could have grown so fond of any one in such a short
time. He wasn't merely fine as an artist; he was so fine as a man."
She nodded.
"You understood him? You knew all about him? He talked to you openly,
didn't he?"
"Yes," I said. "He used to tell me all kinds of things."
"Then explain to me," she cried out, and I saw that tears brimmed in
her eyes, "why did he die when I came?"
"It was a coincidence," I said lamely.
Seizing my hands, she actually fell on her knees before me, flashing
into my eyes all the loveliness of her pallid, upturned face.
"It was not a coincidence!" she passionately sobbed. "Why can't you be
frank with me, and tell me how it is that I have killed him? He said
long ago--do you not remember?--that I was fatal to him. He was
getting better--you yourself said so--till I came, and then he died."
What could I reply? The girl was uttering the thoughts which had
haunted me for days.
I tried to smile a reassurance, and raising her as gently as I could,
I led her back to her chair. It was on my part a feeble performance.
"You are suffering from a nervous crisis," I said, "and I must
prescribe for you. My first prescription is that we do not talk about
Alresca's death."
I endeavored to be perfectly matter-of-fact in tone, and gradually she
grew calmer.
"I have not slept since that night," she murmured wearily. "Then you
will not tell me?"
"What have I to tell you, except that you are ill? Stop a moment. I
have an item of news, after all. Poor Alresca has made me his heir."
"That was like his kind heart."
"Yes, indeed. But I can't imagine why he did it!"
"It was just gratitude," said she.
"A rare kind of gratitude," I replied.
"Is no reason given in the will?"