She ran to open the door as steps were heard in the hall, but it was Sarah Woodham who entered, holding her hand to her side, haggard and breathless, as she staggered into the room, only just able to pant forth, “Coming directly,” before she reeled and would have fallen, had not Claude supported her, and let her sink into a chair.
“Hold up, woman!” whispered the doctor, savagely; “you must not give way.”
“I—ran—there—and—back—Miss Claude,” whispered the woman, and then to herself, as she lay back with her eyes closed, “It is too horrible, too horrible!”
The doctor went to the table and poured out some brandy, as Claude crept with a glass of wine to her father’s side, knelt by him, and, taking his hand, laid her other across her breast.
A chill crept through her, and a hysterical sob struggled to her lips, as she felt that the hand she held was growing clammy. But making an effort, she told herself that, in cases of sudden illness, the extremities did grow cold, and that this was not a matter for alarm. There was the doctor’s assurance, too.
Just then she turned her head and saw Sarah Woodham thrusting back the glass the doctor had held to her lips.
“No, no,” she said with a shudder; and the doctor turned away impatiently and set the glass upon the table.
“Miserable teetotal whims,” he muttered; and he went back to Gartram’s side, ignoring Claude’s presence and inquiring looks as he bent over his patient for a moment, and then hurriedly crossed to the door, flung it open, and went out into the hall, and then to the front door, which he threw open, and stood out in the air wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“He ought to be here by now,” he muttered, “he ought to be here by now.”
“Sarah! Sarah!”