“For my sake, Gyp; for my sake!”
When, with Markey's aid, he had got her to the cab, they took her, not back to the house, but to the inn. She was in high fever, and soon delirious. By noon, Aunt Rosamund and Mrs. Markey, summoned by telegram, had arrived; and the whole inn was taken lest there should be any noise to disturb her.
At five o'clock, Winton was summoned downstairs to the little so-called reading-room. A tall woman was standing at the window, shading her eyes with the back of a gloved hand. Though they had lived so long within ten miles of each other he only knew Lady Summerhay by sight, and he waited for the poor woman to speak first. She said in a low voice:
“There is nothing to say; only, I thought I must see you. How is she?”
“Delirious.”
They stood in silence a full minute, before she whispered:
“My poor boy! Did you see him—his forehead?” Her lips quivered. “I will take him back home.” And tears rolled, one after the other, slowly down her flushed face under her veil. Poor woman! Poor woman! She had turned to the window, passing her handkerchief up under the veil, staring out at the little strip of darkening lawn, and Winton, too, stared out into that mournful daylight. At last, he said:
“I will send you all his things, except—except anything that might help my poor girl.”
She turned quickly.
“And so it's ended like this! Major Winton, is there anything behind—were they really happy?”