In the solemn silence that ensued Mrs. Gerome lifted her face, and Dr. Grey never forgot the wild, imploring gaze, that met his. He understood its import, and shook his head. She rose instantly, moved away from the bed, and left the room.
For nearly an hour Dr. Grey hung over the prostrate form, which lay with closed eyes, and gradually sank into the heavy lethargic sleep, from which he knew she could never awake.
Leaving her to the care of Robert and two female servants, he went in search of the mistress of the silent and dreary house.
Taking a lamp from the escritoire in the back parlor, he went from room to room, finding nowhere the object he sought, and at length became alarmed. As he stood in the front door, perplexed and anxious, the thought presented itself that she might have gone down to the beach. He went back to the apartment occupied by the dying woman,—felt once more the sinking pulse, and took a last look at the altered and almost rigid face.
“Robert, I can do her no good. Her soul will very soon be with her God.”
“Oh, sir, don’t leave her! Don’t give her up, while there is life in her body!” cried the son, grasping the doctor’s sleeve.
Dr. Grey put his hand on the Scotchman’s shoulder, and whispered,—
“I am going to hunt for Mrs. Gerome. She is not in the house. I may be able to render her some service, but your mother is beyond all human aid.”
“Is there any pulse?”