Before very long the doctor came out again to join him, and told him more. For a week before this she had been very much depressed, and, to remedy that, there was no doubt that she had unduly tired herself, chiefly with some writing that she was doing.
“A play,” he said; “she finished it some four days ago. It is inside in the drawing-room. She wished you to read it.
“The morning after she had finished it she had a fainting fit. Not very serious in itself. But I insisted on her stopping in bed next day. That day she sent you a telegram, but she could not write. A few hours afterward she had a worse attack. I telegraphed to you then. She knows that, by the way. She knew you were coming.”
“Does she know I am here?” asked Hugh.
“I am not sure. But about ten minutes before I met you on the path, while I was still with her, she said suddenly, ‘Oh, he has come.’ And then she fell asleep.”
Hugh turned round in his chair.
“What do you expect?” he said. “What is the best you expect, and what is the worst? I want to know all.”
The doctor looked at him silently a moment.
“You mean what would I wish for one I loved in such a case, and what would I fear?”
“Exactly that.”