Another year divided Wilkinson from his tragedy, and still he stood trembling weakly on the verge. Mrs. Norman began to grow thin. She lost her bright air of defiance, and showed herself vulnerable by the hand of time. And nothing, positively nothing, stood between them, except Wilkinson's morbid diffidence. So absurdly manifest was their case that somebody (the Troubadour man, in fact) interposed discreetly. In the most delicate manner possible, he gave Wilkinson to understand that he would not necessarily make himself obnoxious to Mrs. Norman were he to approach her with--well, with a view to securing their joint happiness--happiness which they had both earned by their admirable behavior.
That was all that was needed: a tactful friend of both parties to put it to Wilkinson simply and in the right way. Wilkinson rose from his abasement. There was a light in his eye that rejoiced the tactful friend; his face had a look of sudden, virile determination.
It was a dark, unpleasant evening, full of cold and sleet.
Wilkinson thrust his arms into an overcoat, jammed a cap down on his forehead, and strode into the weather. He strode into Mrs. Norman's drawing-room.
When Mrs. Norman saw that look on his face she knew that it was all right. Her youth rose in her again to meet it.
"Forgive me," said Wilkinson. "I had to come."
He sat down, still with his air of determination, in the chair she indicated. He waved away, with unconcealed impatience, the trivialities she used to soften the violence of his invasion.
"I've come," he said, "because I've had something on my mind. It strikes me that I've never really thanked you."
"I shall always be grateful to you," said Wilkinson. "You were very good to her."
"I assure you," he insisted, "she felt it very much. I thought you would like to know that."
"Oh, yes." Mrs. Norman's voice went very low with the sinking of her heart.
"She used to say you did more for her--you and your sister, with her beautiful music--than all the doctors. You found the thing that eased her. I suppose _you_ knew how ill she was--all the time? I mean before her last illness."
His face, which had grown grave, brightened. "No? Well, you see, she was so plucky. Nobody could have known; I didn't always realize it myself."