A moment later Mrs. Seymour’s heavy footfall sounded at the doorway, and she entered panting. As her glance fell on the colonel, she gave a sharp sound.
“What is it?” whispered Viola, her tongue suddenly dry and stiff as a piece of leather. “He won’t speak.”
Mrs. Seymour stepped forward, and laying her hand on the colonel’s eyes, softly closed the lids.
“He won’t never speak no more, my dear,” she said gently.
Viola looked at her with a wild and terrified face.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Seymour!” she cried. “Oh, no—oh, not that! We were just going away—we were going home! Oh, it couldn’t be that; it’s too cruel, it’s too unnecessary. He wanted so to go! There was no harm in it. Why couldn’t they have waited till we’d got home?”
She raised her hands to her head in a gesture of dazed despair, and fell senseless into Mrs. Seymour’s arms.