No. The accident was to have been. It could not occur because he had whispered a precious name. With passionate jealousy, she defended his tribute. She would—she must have that.
Along about midnight and quite unexpectedly, Jack became conscious. His mind seemed to open with his eyes. He saw his father first, seated on one side of the historic bed, then glanced about until he found Dolores on the other.
From the outer room could be heard the deep-breathing of the celebrated surgeon who had performed the operation. He had preferred to spend the night there, awaiting results. The nurse, too, had been persuaded to a brief rest, since Mr. Cabot and the governess elected to keep the watch.
The mother who, all evening, had been in a “state” of grief bordering on hysteria, had been retired to her own apartment by one of her headaches and Dr. Shayle. A remark made to the osteopath in a quite calm voice, however, had suggested that already she had found relief from the shock.
“It will be better when it is all over,” she had said, turning with one of her quavering, childlike smiles from placing a rose between her son’s unresponsive fingers. “A lame lad couldn’t have gone far in this rapid age.”
Dolores, overhearing, felt a sensation new to her. By contrast with its violence, she knew that it was not hate she felt for the puppy. This was the first hate that had racked her—this feeling for Catherine Cabot. “All over”—his mother to anticipate that!
Now that the boy’s eyes had opened and widened with relief to find herself and John by the bed, the suggestion seemed more inhuman than before. She reached across to take away the rose of such cruel suggestiveness.
But Jack’s fingers now closed around the stem. His lips moved.
Both she and his father leaned close.