To the astonishment of both the girls, Betty burst out crying.
“Betty, I am sure something has happened,” said Phoebe, springing up. “What is the matter?”
“O, my dear, Madam’s gone!” sobbed Betty. “Poor dear gentlewoman! She’ll never see anybody again. Mrs Rhoda, she’s died in the night.”
There was a moment of silent horror, as the eyes of the cousins met. Then Phoebe said under her breath—
“That bell!”
“Yes, poor dear Madam, she rang her bell,” said Betty; “but she could not speak when I got to her. I don’t think she was above ten minutes after. I’ve sent off sharp for Dr Saunders, and Mr Dawson too; but ’tis too late—eh, poor dear gentlewoman!”
“Did you send for Mr Leighton?” asked Rhoda, in an awe-struck voice.
“Oh dear, yes, I sent for him too; but la! what can he do?” answered Betty, wiping her eyes.
They all came in due order: Dr Saunders to pronounce that Madam had been dead three hours—“of a cardial malady,” said he, in a professionally mysterious manner; Mr Leighton, the Vicar of Tewkesbury, to murmur a few platitudes about the virtues and charity to the poor which had distinguished the deceased lady, and to express his firm conviction that so exalted a character would be at once enrolled among the angelic host, even though she had not been so happy as to receive the Holy Sacrament. Mr Dawson came last, and his concern appeared to be awakened rather for the living than the dead.
“Sad business this!” said he, as he entered the parlour, where the cousins sat, close together, drawn to one another by the fellowship of suffering, in a manner they had never been before. “Sad business! Was to have seen me to-day—important matter. Humph!”