‘She really lives in good society?’
‘Haven’t I told you the sort of people she knows? She must be very well off; there can’t be a doubt of it.’
I don’t care so much about that,’ said Nancy in a brooding voice. ‘It’s herself,—whether she’s kind and good and wishes well to us.
The next day there was no change in Mr. Lord’s condition; a deep silence possessed the house. In the afternoon Nancy went to pass an hour with Jessica Morgan; on her return she met Samuel Barmby, who was just leaving after a visit to the sick man. Samuel bore himself with portentous gravity, but spoke only a few commonplaces, affecting hope; he bestowed upon Nancy’s hand a fervent pressure, and strode away with the air of an undertaker who had called on business.
Two more days of deepening gloom, then a night through which Nancy sat with Mary Woodruff by her father’s bed. Mr. Lord was unconscious, but from time to time a syllable or a phrase fell from his lips, meaningless to the watchers. At dawn, Nancy went to her chamber, pallid, exhausted. Mary, whose strength seemed proof against fatigue, moved about the room, preparing for a new day; every few minutes she stood with eyes fixed on the dying face, and the tears she had restrained in Nancy’s presence flowed silently.
When the sun made a golden glimmer upon the wall, Mary withdrew, and was absent for a quarter of an hour. On returning, she bent at once over the bed; her eyes were met by a grave, wondering look.
‘Do you know me?’ she whispered.
The lips moved; she bent lower, but could distinguish no word. He was speaking; the murmur continued; but she gathered no sense.
‘You can trust me, I will do all I can.’
He seemed to understand her, and smiled. As the smile faded away, passing into an austere calm, Mary pressed her lips upon his forehead.