‘It’s uncertain.’
Emma passed into the sick-room. Her sister followed her with eyes of ill-content, then returned to the kitchen.
Jane lay against pillows. Red light from the fire played over her face, which was wasted beyond recognition. She looked a handmaiden of Death.
The atmosphere of the room was warm and sickly. A small green-shaded lamp stood by the looking-glass in front of the window; it cast a disk of light below, and on the ceiling concentric rings of light and shade, which flickered ceaselessly, and were at times all but obliterated in a gleam from the fireplace. A kettle sang on the trivet.
The sick girl’s hands lay on the counterpane; one of them moved as Emma came to the bedside, and rested when the warmer fingers clasped it. There was eager inquiry in the sunken eyes; her hand tried to raise itself, but in vain.
‘What did Alice say?’ she asked, in quick feeble tones. ‘Is he coming?’
‘Not for Christmas, I’m afraid, dear. He’s still very busy.’
‘But he sent you a message?’
‘Yes. He would have come if he could.’
‘Did you tell Alice I wanted to see her? Why didn’t she come up? Why did she stay such a short time?’