Shrinking from so stringent a test of my own generosity I turned aside, not wishing to see anything further, only to hear.
Had I looked—looked in the right place, this story might never have been written; but I only listened—held my breath and listened for a break—any break—in the too heavy silence.
It came just as my endurance had reached the breaking-point. Dr. Cameron spoke, addressing Edgar.
“The funeral I understand is to be held to-morrow. At what hour, may I ask?”
“At eleven in the morning.”
“It will have to be postponed. Though there is little probability of any change being necessary in the wording of the death-certificate; yet it is possible and I must have time to consider.”
XXIII
It was just and proper. But only Orpha had the courage to speak—to seek to probe his mind—to sound the depths of this household’s misery. Orpha! whom to guard from the mere disagreeabilities of life were a man’s coveted delight! She our leader? The one to take her stand in the breach yawning between the old life and the new?
“You mean,” she forced herself to say, “that what had happened to Martha’s brother may have happened to my beloved father?”
“I doubt it, but we must make sure. A poison capable of producing death was in this house. You know that; others knew it. I had warned you all concerning it. I made it plain, I thought, that small doses taken according to prescription were helpful, but that increased beyond a certain point, they meant death. You remember, Orpha?”