“I am going to him,” said Harriet; “nothing that you can say makes any difference.”
The Father gazed at her thoughtfully. Then he nodded. “No,” he said; “you are right; nothing will.”
Just then the two other physicians came down the stairs.
“A word with you first, gentlemen, please,” said the Father. The four men gathered at the foot of the stairway.
Watching, an outsider would have said that the priest and the young doctor were pleaders with the others for the cause of Miss Blair.
Later, the Mother herself led Harriet up the stairs and along a corridor, the young doctor following with Alexina.
“I think I—do you think I ought to go with her?” Alexina had faltered to him.
The two young things gazed at each other indeterminate. Alexina’s eyes were swimming, like a child’s, with unshed tears. Never has tragedy such epic qualities as in youth. Then he turned and led the way. “Yes,” he told her, “I think if I were you I would.”
Harriet was by the bed when they entered, gazing down on the lean, brown face of the man, whose eyes were closed. The Sister in charge, sitting on the other side, was speaking in a low voice. Had she seen fit to tell what she knew?
For Harriet turned as they entered and looked at them. Her face was set as in marble. It was cold, it was stern; only, the eyes fixed on the young doctor’s face were imploring.