Elizabeth, pale and pinched, stood by handing what might be required. She did not greatly love her sister, they were antagonistic and their interests clashed, or she thought they did, but this sudden death was awful. In a corner, pitiful to see, offering groans and ejaculated prayers to heaven, sat the old clergymen, their father, his white hair about his eyes. He was a weak, coarse-grained man, but in his own way his clever and beautiful girl was dear to him, and this sight wrung his soul as it had not been wrung for years.
“She’s gone,” he said continually, “she’s gone; the Lord’s will be done. There must be another mistress at the school now. Seventy pounds a year she will cost—seventy pounds a year!”
“Do be quiet, father,” said Elizabeth sharply.
“Ay, ay, it is very well for you to tell me to be quiet. You are quiet because you don’t care. You never loved your sister. But I have loved her since she was a little fair-haired child, and so did your poor mother. ‘Beatrice’ was the last word she spoke.”
“Be quiet, father!” said Elizabeth, still more sharply. The old man, making no reply, sank back into a semi-torpor, rocking himself to and fro upon his chair.
Meanwhile without intermission the work went on.
“It is no use,” said the assistant at last, as he straightened his weary frame and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “She must be dead; we have been at it nearly three hours now.”
“Patience,” said the doctor. “If necessary I shall go on for four—or till I drop,” he added.
Ten minutes more passed. Everybody knew that the task was hopeless, but still they hoped.
“Great Heavens!” said the assistant presently, starting back from the body and pointing at its face. “Did you see that?”