He started the machine. “Don’t forget I love you,” he called in a low voice.
She stood looking after him as the car dwindled down the street.
“Yes, you do!” she murmured.
She walked up the path to the house, her face thoughtful, as with a tiresome perplexity. In her own room, divesting herself of her wraps, she gave the mirror a long scrutiny. It offered the picture of a girl with a hard and dreary air; but Cora saw something else, and presently, though the dreariness remained, the hardness softened to a great compassion. She suffered: a warm wave of sorrow submerged her, and she threw herself upon the bed and wept long and silently for herself.
At last her eyes dried, and she lay staring at the ceiling. The doorbell rang, and Sarah, the cook, came to inform her that Mr. Richard Lindley was below.
“Tell him I’m out.”
“Can’t,” returned Sarah. “Done told him you was home.” And she departed firmly.
Thus abandoned, the prostrate lady put into a few words what she felt about Sarah, and, going to the door, whisperingly summoned in Laura, who was leaving the sick-room, across the hall.
“Richard is downstairs. Will you go and tell him I’m sick in bed—or dead? Anything to make him go.” And, assuming Laura’s acquiescence, Cora went on, without pause: “Is father worse? What’s the matter with you, Laura?”
“Nothing. He’s a little better, Miss Peirce thinks.”