When Mrs Palmer found that the old lady was apparently stunned, certainly unconscious, she was afraid to run the risk of having her carried to the other side of the house, but caused a little iron bedstead to be brought in from one of the servants’ rooms, and, with some difficulty, the tall, bony figure was lifted upon it. She had to send to Rilston for the doctor, where Godfrey was, no one exactly knew, but she ordered a telegram to be sent to Guy at Ingleby, hardly knowing if it would give him time to come that day.
Then ensued an afternoon of distress and perplexity. The doctor fortunately was encountered on the road, and came within an hour; but his verdict was bad. The head had been injured by the fall, and besides, it seemed to him, that the vital powers, the activity of the heart, more weakened by age than had been supposed, had failed in the shock, and revival was most improbable. He feared it was a question of hours.
Mrs Palmer did her best. She was a soft, comfortable woman, not used to emergencies, and perhaps happily, the weird surroundings did not impress her slow imagination. She never thought of the picture that looked down at his descendant with his hopeless eyes, of the curious fate that brought this second waiting for those who did not come into the fatal chamber, and she only thought of the ghastly horseman, when the puzzling noise made her start up expecting to see one of the young men arriving. Most of the servants were strangers, and the one old housemaid, who was accustomed to wait on her mistress, was in tears and despair, afraid that “missus,” when she came round, would be displeased with everything that was done for her.
Jeanie, in frightened whispers, confided to her mother what her aunt had told her about the blue envelope.
“Burn a paper!” said Mrs Palmer. “Whatever she may say, Jeanie, don’t you think of doing such a thing. Who knows if she has her faculties? Don’t take such a responsibility on you for worlds. Godfrey must be back in an hour or so; I believe he was only going to lunch at the Rabys. See if you can send after him.”
So the fire was lighted in the octagon-room, and all the incongruous necessaries of sudden illness appeared among the old furniture, and contrasted with the unused solitude of the place.
Mrs Waynflete lay on her bed. She had moved and opened her eyes, but she did not speak, and whether she was conscious of waiting either for death, or for the coming of her nephews—who could say?
The women about her waited for a “change,” or for some one to come to them out of the gathering twilight, and the doctor stayed and watched the case. The wind drove and cried, and the unresting horseman galloped round and round the house. Even the young vicar happened to be out for the day. Mrs Waynflete had trenchantly informed him that “she hadn’t often much necessity to call on other folks to help her.” But Mrs Palmer and Jeanie would have been very glad to welcome him now. Lights were brought, and the octagon windows shone out into the surrounding gloom.
The two women did not think much about Guy; but they grieved much over the continued absence of Godfrey.
Suddenly Mrs Waynflete looked up, with eyes into which a clearer light had come—