Looking up, it was to see Mary Dillon coming slowly into the room, her eyes closed, and feeling her way along by the door, and then supporting herself by the various pieces of furniture she passed.
“Mary!” cried Claude.
“Yes; I have been there—in there all the time. You did not see me, but I heard everything. Oh, Claude, is it all true?”
She did not wait for a response, but sank down, covering her face with her hands, and completely prostrated by her grief.
“No, no,” whispered Claude, going to her, kneeling by her side, and, hungering for love and sympathy, drawing the weeping girl to her breast. “Doctor Asher said that it was not so, Mary darling,” she whispered; “help me to pray. He must not—he cannot die.”
Sarah Woodham stood near them hearing every word, and a shiver swiftly ran through her as she listened to the allusions to death, and again and again, with her face working, she stretched out her hands as if to try and comfort the two weeping girls, but only to shake her head sadly, and draw back from where they were now clasped in each other’s arms.
And the time went on.
Every few moments Claude rose to go to the door, and after opening it, stood listening intently, but the most she could hear was the low muffled sound of voices, and each time she returned to her cousin’s side with a despairing sigh.
“We seem so helpless,” she exclaimed. “Surely I might go back now.” But she made no attempt to disobey the doctor’s commands, and waited and waited till the low sobbing gave place to silent despair; and with eyes fixed upon the door, all sat waiting for the tidings that they dared not hope now would be good.
A step at last in the hall, and Claude flew to the drawing-room door, and flung it open, but only to shrink away, as she saw that it was not Asher, but the strange doctor—a new comer to the place—and one whom they had hardly spoken to before.