Back in the cottage, ‘I must keep calm. I mustn’t lose control of myself,’ she urged upon her wildly beating heart; and she climbed the stairs trying not to be terrified by the deathly silence of the place. When she opened the bedroom door she could hear the sawing noise of the child’s breathing, and fear laid a cold finger on her brain: could that be what they called the death-rattle?
‘Ah,’ she said, half-aloud, ‘if I lose my nerve I shall be useless to her in her greatest need.’ And, deciding that she could do no more, she forced herself to sit down and await with iron patience the doctor’s coming. She wondered whether she would do wrong if she opened the window she had in her first panic shut. The room was unbearably stuffy. ‘Pure air must be better than bad,’ she told herself; and unfastened the catch. The garden seemed full of sunshine and birds and the smell of honeysuckle.
She turned her head at the sound of steps on the stairs. ‘At last!’
A commanding and resolute female figure appeared in the doorway: Edward’s sister, Hypatia.
‘Well, Sheila,’ said Hypatia, humorously grim. ‘You keep open house, I see.’
Sheila stared, unable and uncaring to hide her disappointment. ‘Oh, you mean my leaving the front door open. That’s for the doctor.’
Hypatia stepped into the room. ‘Something’s wrong.’ Her tone became gentle as her glance fell upon Rosemary. ‘Rosemary—she’s ill?’
‘Yes ... Rosemary.’ Sheila’s voice lingeringly caressed the name.
‘Poor little kid,’ Hypatia murmured. ‘What is it?’
In an undertone Sheila began repeating her simple story. ‘Oh, I do wish the doctor would come!’ she broke off. ‘It may be pneumonia or something even more dreadful.’