Then there came a time when she seemed to herself to be all alone in a dark place where no one came to her, though she cried continually for mother, and was certain that if only this weight would leave her head, she could lift it and call loud enough for mother to hear her!
And then, quite suddenly, there was shaded lamp-light in the rose bedroom, and mother was sitting there beside her bed.
She tried to speak, but found the words did not come; nor did a hand, that seemed lying loosely on the counterpane belonging to nobody, move from its place, but mother took it in hers and kissed it. Sydney had a vague kind of feeling that everything was right now mother had come.
Then there was a time when things grew clearer; when she knew that there was sometimes daylight on the wall and sometimes lamp-light, and then father was beside her, looking at her through the gold-rimmed eye-glasses she knew so well. And presently Mr. Seaton was kneeling by her bed, saying words which she was dimly conscious he had said before. Then suddenly everything was quite clear, and a mild spring-like air was coming in through the open window, and she felt as if all the dreams had passed away in that long night of fever.
“I always said she would turn the corner when Mrs. Chichester came!” Dr. Lorry declared, rubbing his hands gleefully; and though of course all credit should be given to the doctors and the nurses, I think Mrs. Chichester’s presence and her strong mother-love had no small amount to do with calling back the girl, whose feet had gone so very near the margin of that river we call death.
Dr. Chichester himself brought the news that Sydney had turned the sharp corner and come back to those who loved her, to the kinsman keeping his watch on the sofa in the library, and I think any feelings of antagonism towards the Chichesters that St. Quentin may have had left, were quite swept away by the look on the doctor’s face and the choke in his voice as he said, “She has turned the corner now—thank God for it!”
The marquess even went so far as to remember Hugh and his feelings and, unconscious of that watch the young man had kept outside the Castle, desired that a servant should instantly go down with a message to the improvised hospital.
It was the next morning—a strange, disorganised morning—when everybody seemed to be united in the one absorbing gladness, that St. Quentin asked to see the Vicar when he came down from his visit to Sydney.
Mr. Seaton wondered at the summons, but rejoiced over it with all his heart. It had been one of his great griefs that he was allowed to give no help or comfort to this man who stood so plainly in need of both.
“So you’ve pulled your boy round?” was St. Quentin’s greeting, as the Vicar came into the library. “I can’t tell you how glad I am of that—the jolly little chap! That will be something to tell Sydney when she’s strong enough to hear news.... That isn’t what I want to say, though.” He stopped; then brought the last words out with a rush: “Isn’t there something you pray in churches when you’ve something—very special—to be thankful for?”