Grizel rolled eloquent eyes to the ceiling.

"I have been young," she declaimed dramatically, "and now am old, yet have I never seen a woman staring into s.p.a.ce, smirking, and looking silly, considering how she can best turn a sentence, to another woman!

I tell you that which I do know and, Martin dear, it's not disloyalty...

I wouldn't have breathed a word, if it had not been for the hope of helping both. Keep your own eyes open, and _act_! Katrine's conscience is of the good, old-fashioned, Nonconformist type which urges her on to do the thing she most dislikes, out of a deluded idea that it must needs be right! She's quite capable of playing suttee with her life. _Don't let her do it_!"

"How can I help it? I know nothing. I am not consulted. I believe the whole thing is imagination. If there had been anything real she would surely have confided in you."

"Me? I'm the last person,--the last person in the world--"

The words were spoken on the impulse of the moment, and apparently regretted as soon as they were p.r.o.nounced. Grizel flushed; obviously, unmistakably, even in the glow of the firelight. She flushed, and pushing back her chair rose hurriedly to her feet.

"Whew! That fire! Katrine was right,--it _does_ get close. And I believe it is going to clear.--I'll go and see."

"Why are you the last? _Why_?"

Martin had followed her, was questioning with a new light in his eyes-- eager, curious, antic.i.p.atory. On her way towards the door her progress was blocked by his tall form.

"Why the last, Grizel?" he repeated urgently. "Tell me! I want to know. Why should Katrine--?"

Never before had he seen a trace of embarra.s.sment break the lazy serenity of Grizel's mien. The sight of it, and the possibility of an intoxicating explanation of her statement, fired his blood. For the last two years he had been fighting against this love, fighting it as a forbidden thing, a thing of which to be ashamed, but lately, subtly, the mental position had changed. Life was forcibly pushing him from one standpoint after another, proving its untenability, sending him forth to find fresh fields.

"Why should Katrine--?" he cried, and at that moment the door opened and Katrine herself stood upon the threshold.

Her face was pale, her eyes grave and gentle, the picture of her as she appeared at that moment dwelt in Martin's mind, and brought with it a startled recognition of his sister's charm, then in a flash, she stiffened; the softness pa.s.sed from the eyes, and was replaced by a chilly scorn. This was a love scene upon which she had intruded,-- Grizel flushed, protesting, Martin flushed, appealing, and her own name "Katrine" bandied upon his lip--no doubt to be waved aside, as an obstacle blocking the way.

It was in a voice icily bereft of expression that she delivered her message:

"I have just taken a message for you, Grizel. They have rung up to say that Lady Griselda is worse. You are wanted at home at once."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Lady Griselda Dundas lay a-dying on her great oak bed. For two long weeks after Grizel's summons home she had lingered on, until now her aquiline features were attenuated to a knife-like sharpness, and every particle of flesh seemed to have departed from the skeleton form, but the eyes were alive, conscious, yet with a puzzled wistfulness in their glance. Her brain had cleared, as often happens immediately before the great change; the present was clear, but over the past the cloud still hung.

"I--can't remember!" she reiterated feebly. "It's all blank. What have I been doing these last weeks, Grizel? Where have I been?"

Grizel knelt by the bedside, her warm hands clasped over the icy fingers. She wore a soft white dressing-gown, and her hair hung in a long plait down her back. She had been sleeping on a sofa at the end of the room, but now it was two o'clock, and there was a look in the old woman's face which made her determine to keep close at hand.

Nevertheless there was no sorrow in her face; the smile with which she spoke was as usual, sweet and unperturbed.

"You have been here, Buddy; in this house; in these rooms, and I've been with you, except for a few days. Everything has gone on just the same..."

"Ha!" exclaimed Lady Griselda loudly. Her eyes flashed with a flicker of the old fire. "And a fine old fool I've been making of myself, no doubt! Senile decay! I hoped at least I should be spared _that_. I can't remember.--It is like a mist. Have I been ill?"

"Weak, darling, and tired. You've been up most days. A month ago you had a drive. Only two days ago you were taken worse."

"And now," said the old woman calmly, "I'm dying. Pretty soon too, I should say, for there's not much feeling left. Don't let them poke me about, Grizel. Keep them away! It's a poor thing if one can't die in peace." She was silent, munching her sunken jaws. Then the keen glance wandered to the girl's face, and softened.

"Have I been rough with you, child? Bullied you? More than usual, I mean. If I have, I didn't know it... Has it been a hard time?"

Grizel smiled again.

"You varied, dear. Rather fierce at times, and again quite meek, and sometimes, terribly funny! You'd laugh, Buddy, if you could hear some of the things you said!"

"Ha!" A wraith of a smile pa.s.sed over the grey face. "Glad to hear it.

I'd be interested, but there's not time... Where's that fool of a nurse? Keep her away; I want no one but you. Well, child, shall you grieve for me when I'm gone?"

"No, Buddy, dear. I'll grieve for _myself_, but for you, I shall be glad it's over,--the pain, and the crippledom, and the dulness, and the waiting. I love you too much to want _that_ to go on. It will be better..."

"Well! Well!" Lady Griselda sighed. "We'll see! Better than I deserve--I'm sure of that. I can't even say I've done my best. I _haven't_ but G.o.d knows, at the bottom of my heart I _wanted to_! I was born sour, just as you, child, were born sweet. Seems unfair. I don't understand... Lots of things we don't understand... That will be interesting--to find out!"

She munched in silence for several minutes, her gaze lingering wistfully on Grizel's face, upturned in the dim light.

"Good child," she said distinctly. "Good child! Kind. Loving. True.

You've been a comfort to me."

"Ah, Buddy, dear!" The deep, soft tone of Grizel's voice was more eloquent than a caress. "It's been so easy! We've loved each other...

If it's possible where you are going, look after me still! I want to feel you are near. I'll remember you always, and your dear kindness."

Lady Griselda frowned. A look of distress wrinkled her face.

"Kind!" she repeated. "I _meant_ to be! I wanted you to be happy--I schemed for that--but it may be, I was wrong. I don't know, I can't think. It's too late now, but I meant well, child, remember that! I thought only of you."

"Buddy," said Grizel clearly. "All the money in the world is not worth troubling about in these few last hours. Leave it alone! I shall be happy, dear; G.o.d made me happy. Rest your old head, and don't trouble.

It's all quite, quite right."

Lady Griselda closed her eyes. The sands were running very low, and she had not the energy to speak. Grizel fed her with sips of brandy, but she made no attempt to call the nurse, who was sleeping in another room.

She also held the theory that a human soul should be allowed to die after its own fashion, even if thereby life's span were shortened by a few hours. Still on her knees she watched while the old woman dozed, and dozed again, waking up to brief moments of consciousness, but her mind had wandered from the present, and was back in the far away past.

"He broke my heart," she said faintly once. "It was the money he wanted, not me; but I loved him. And there was no child--I was alone!"

Suddenly her eyes flashed. "I hope," she said clearly, "we shall never meet! I forgive him--it's all over--but eternity is big enough...

There's room for both." ... Another time, "Remember," she gasped, "no black for me! Don't suit you. Dismal stuff. _Let_ 'em talk!" and again, with a reminiscent chuckle: "Rudest woman in London. That was me, and here I lie! Well! Well! it did me one good turn. When I was crippled they kept their distance... No fussing and sympathising.

Didn't want 'em. Only you--"

Grizel stroked her hand, and she slept again. It was an awesome thing to watch the grey face, changing moment by moment into a mask of clay.

The hard, bitter-tongued woman had come to the end of her journey, and was going out into the great unknown. Life had brought her perhaps the hardest of all fates, great wealth, and little love. The girl kneeling by her side knew that she was the only person on earth who would honestly regret her loss, and the knowledge brought with it the first tear.

She sent out her whole heart in a pa.s.sion of love and grat.i.tude, as if thereby she could lighten the last struggle of life. As the shackles of earth were loosened, the spirit so soon to be freed from the fleshly prison must surely be sensitive to the ministrations of a kindred soul.

Grizel poured forth the wealth of her love, and even as she gazed beheld an answering peace on the dying face. The eyes remained closed, but the fingers stirred within her own with a caressing touch.

"Good--child," breathed the faint voice. "Good--child!"

An hour later Grizel awoke the sleeping nurse and informed her of her patient's death some ten minutes before. The nurse rose hurriedly, shocked and discomfited in her professional pride. Why was she not called?

"She did not want you. We preferred to be alone," said Grizel calmly.

She was perfectly composed, and there were no tear marks on her pallid face. The nurse looked at her and wondered instinctively why people called Miss Dundas a beauty. She fastened her dressing-gown, and made the inevitable attempt at comfort.

"You must be exhausted. Let me make you a cup of tea!"