Just as he was calling her name in a last frenzied burst of grief, Elsie opened her eyes. She was too feeble for speech, but she remembered everything clearly, and made a vain effort to rise.
"You must not talk, Elsie; don't stir—you will hurt yourself!"
He searched on the toilet table, found a bottle of laudanum, and administered as large a dose as he dared; he knew that the effects could not be so dangerous as her present suffering.
He sat down by the bed, folding his arms about her, calling her by every endearing name that his tenderness and fear could suggest, striving to soothe her into slumber.
Elsie would lie quiet for a few moments, then begin to struggle and cry out, till it seemed to Mellon that she would die before the opiate could take effect.
The potion worked at length; she lay back on the pillows white and still—her eyes stared drearily about the chamber once more, and then closed—she had fallen into a heavy sleep.
For a long hour Grantley Mellen remained on his knees by her bedside, where he had fallen.
He rose at length. Victoria was knocking at the door, and warning her young mistress that breakfast was on the table.
Mellen went to the door and opened it, checked the girl's cry of astonishment with a gesture, and said:
"Miss Elsie is very ill—go downstairs at once, and let there be no noise in the house."