“Well,” said Mrs. Royce, “seems to me I’d knock, if I was you.”
Knock on the door of the room where Mrs. Quelton lay? Knock, and expect an answer from that voice? It seemed to Lexy, for a moment, that she could not raise her hand.
But she did. She knocked, and she was answered. She turned the handle and went in. An oil lamp stood on the bureau, and outside the circle of its mellow light, in the shadow, Mrs. Quelton was sitting on the edge of the bed; and it seemed to Lexy that she had never seen such a forlorn and pitiful figure.[Pg 363]
“Oh, my dear!” she cried impulsively, and held out her arms.
Mrs. Quelton rose. She came toward Lexy, her hands outstretched—when a sudden cry from Mrs. Royce arrested her.
“But that ain’t Mrs. Quelton!” cried the landlady.
XXIV
If Lexy had not caught the unhappy woman, she would have fallen; but those sturdy young arms held her, and, with Mrs. Royce’s help, they got her on the bed. White as a ghost, incredibly frail in her black dress, she lay there, scarcely seeming to breathe.
“It ain’t Mrs. Quelton!” repeated Mrs. Royce, in a whisper.
“I know!” said Lexy softly. “Will you get me water and a towel, please?”