“Arthur wants a doctor,” replied Jem. “Can you not see that he is in a sort of trance? He hears and sees nothing. He is quite unconscious.”
Mrs. Agar seemed only half to understand. She stared at her son, swaying backwards and forwards in imbecile misery.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” she whispered, “what have we done to deserve this?”
After a few seconds she repeated the words.
“What have we done to deserve this? What have we done ...”
Her voice died away into a whisper, and when that became inaudible her lips went on moving, still framing the same words over and over again.
In this manner they waited, with that dull senselessness to the flight of time which follows on a great shock.
They all heard the clatter of horses' feet on the gravel of the avenue, and probably they all divined that Mark Ruthine had sent for medical help.
To Dora the sound brought a sudden boundless sense of relief. Amidst this mental confusion it came as a practical common-sense proof that the tension of the last year was over. The burden of her own life was by it lifted from her shoulders; for Jem was here, and nothing could matter very much now.
Presently Ruthine came into the room. As he went towards Arthur he glanced at Dora and then at Mrs. Agar, but the young fellow was evidently his first care.