It was utter downfall; she sank into an abyss. And she remained
tearless; fury dried her tears within her. Yet, good mother that she had
always been, she suffered all the torment of motherliness exasperated,
poisoned by the loss of her child.
She drew near to Charlotte and paused behind her, looking at the profile
of her dead son resting among the flowers. And still she did not weep.
She slowly gazed over the bed, filled her eyes with the dolorous scene,
then carried them again to the paper, as if to see what would be left her
of that adored son--those few pencil strokes--when the earth should have
taken him forever. Charlotte, divining that somebody was behind her,
started and raised her head. She did not speak; she had felt frightened.
But both women exchanged a glance. And what a heart pang came to
Constance, amid that display of death, in the presence of the void, the
nothingness that was hers, as she gazed on the other's face, all love and
health and beauty, suggesting some youthful star, whence promise of the
future radiated through the fine gold of wavy hair.
But yet another pang came to Constance at that moment: words which were
being whispered in the drawing-room, near the door of the bedchamber,
reached her distinctly.
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