The next afternoon he was summoned from his office by a message that a woman wanted to see him in the hall outside. He went out wondering and found Pancha, the Mexican servant maid who had been in Mrs. Newbury’s service since her marriage and was in the secret of their liaison. After the fashion of her race the woman wore a black shawl over her head in place of a hat, and her face between its folds was drawn and pale. In a few broken sentences she told him that her mistress was desperately ill; something terrible had happened to her in the night. It was hard to grasp her meaning, for she spoke very poor English and Jerry had no Spanish, but he learned enough to know that Lupé was undoubtedly in a serious state. With the assurance that he would come as soon as he could he sent the woman away and went back into the office.
Half an hour later he started for the Newbury house. He was alarmed and chilled. He could not picture Lupé—a woman of superb physique—stricken down in twenty-four hours. She had been pale and listless but otherwise well yesterday. Pancha, who was not used to sickness, had probably been frightened and had exaggerated. Thus he tried to lift the weight which had suddenly fallen on his heart. He no longer loved Lupé, but he “did not want anything to happen to her,” he thought to himself as he approached the door.
Here at the curb he saw two doctors’ buggies, and, at the sight, his sense of alarm increased. There was no question about it; something serious was evidently the matter.
He asked for Newbury and after a moment’s wait in the hall saw the door into the sitting-room open and that gentleman issue forth, closing the door on a murmur of male voices. Newbury looked an aged man, gray and haggard. Without any greeting, evidently too distraught by sudden calamity to wonder how Jerry had heard the bad news, he said in a low voice:
“They’re holding a consultation in there”—his sunken eyes dwelt on the young man’s and he shook his head. “No hope, none. She can’t possibly get well. They don’t think she’ll live more than a day or two.”
“What—what—is it?” stammered Jerry, horror-stricken. “What’s happened to her?”
“A paralytic stroke. She had it early in the evening. Pancha found her lying on the sofa like a person resting, but she was paralyzed and couldn’t speak. That was what the headaches meant and we were such fools we didn’t think anything of them.”
“Is she conscious? Does she know?” Jerry asked, not knowing what to say, his whole being flooded with a sense of repulsion and dread.
“I think so and so does Pancha. The doctors don’t. She can’t speak or move but her eyes look full of life and intelligence, and once or twice she’s tried to smile.”
A soft footfall on the stairs above caught their ears and they looked up. The Mexican woman was descending, her eyes on Jerry. Newbury cried at her in Spanish, his voice suddenly hoarse with a muffled agony of fear. She shook her head and answered in the same language, speaking at some length. Newbury translated: