Hardly had the weary deep breath taken flight, when the figure of Lady Jocelyn was seen advancing along the corridor, with a lamp in her hand.  She trod heavily, in a kind of march, as her habit was; her large fully-open grey eyes looking straight ahead.  She would have passed him, and he would have let her pass, but seeing the unusual pallor on her face, his love for this lady moved him to step forward and express a hope that she had no present cause for sorrow.

Hearing her mother’s name, Lady Jocelyn was about to return a conventional answer.  Recognizing Evan, she said: 

’Ah!  Mr. Harrington!  Yes, I fear it’s as bad as it can be.  She can scarcely outlive the night.’

Again he stood alone:  his chance was gone.  How could he speak to her in her affliction?  Her calm sedate visage had the beauty of its youth, when lighted by the animation that attends meetings or farewells.  In her bow to Evan, he beheld a lovely kindness more unique, if less precious, than anything he had ever seen on the face of Rose.  Half exultingly, he reflected that no opportunity would be allowed him now to teach that noble head and truest of human hearts to turn from him:  the clear-eyed morrow would come:  the days of the future would be bright as other days!

Wrapped in the comfort of his cowardice, he started to see Lady Jocelyn advancing to him again.

‘Mr. Harrington,’ she said, ’Rose tells me you leave us early in the morning.  I may as well shake your hand now.  We part very good friends.  I shall always be glad to hear of you.’

Evan pressed her hand, and bowed.  ‘I thank you, madam,’ was all he could answer.

‘It will be better if you don’t write to Rose.’

Her tone was rather that of a request than an injunction.

‘I have no right to do so, my lady.’

‘She considers that you have:  I wish her to have, a fair trial.’

His voice quavered.  The philosophic lady thought it time to leave him.

’So good-bye.  I can trust you without extracting a promise.  If you ever have need of a friend, you know you are at liberty to write to me.’

‘You are tired, my lady?’ He put this question more to dally with what he ought to be saying.

’Tolerably.  Your sister, the Countess, relieves me in the night.  I fancy my mother finds her the better nurse of the two.’

Lady Jocelyn’s face lighted in its gracious pleasant way, as she just inclined her head:  but the mention of the Countess and her attendance on Mrs. Bonner had nerved Evan:  the contrast of her hypocrisy and vile scheming with this most open, noble nature, acted like a new force within him.  He begged Lady Jocelyn’s permission to speak with her in private.  Marking his fervid appearance, she looked at him seriously.

‘Is it really important?’

‘I cannot rest, madam, till it is spoken.’

‘I mean, it doesn’t pertain to the delirium?  We may sleep upon that.’