“Of course—of course you will. Don't talk in that way, mamma!”—she dared not trust herself to say darling. She spoke even less caressingly than usual, lest her mother might think there was any dread upon her mind. But gradually, when she heard the strange patience of Mrs. Rothesay's voice, and saw the changes in the beloved face, she began to tremble. Once her wild glance darted upward in almost threatening despair. “God! Thou wilt not—Thou canst not—do this!” And when, at last, she heard the ringing of hoofs, and saw the physician's horse at the gate, she could not stay to speak with him, but fled out of the room.
She composed herself in time to meet him when he came downstairs. She was glad that he was a stranger, so that she had to be restrained, and to ask him in a calm, everyday voice, “What he thought of her mother?”
“You are Miss Rothesay, I believe,” he answered, indirectly.
“I am.”
“Is there no one to help you in nursing your mother—are you here quite alone?”
“Quite alone.”
Dr. Witherington took her hand—kindly, too. “My dear Miss Rothesay, I would not deceive; I never do. If your mother has any relatives to send for, any business to arrange”——
“Ah—I see, I know! Do not say any more!” She closed her eyes faintly, and leaned against the wall. Had she loved her mother with a love less intense, less self-devoted, less utterly absorbing in its passion, at that moment she would have gone mad, or died.
There was one little low sigh; and then upon her great height of woe she rose—rose to a superhuman calm.
“You would tell me, then, that there is no hope?”