“And mine,” Gabrielle added, softly, a warm young vital hand in David’s, her beautiful eyes not raised from this tragic little last glimpse of the splendid and victorious Black Fleming of Wastewater.
CHAPTER XVIII
The doctor returned with another doctor, in the course of the strange disorganized day, and Etta, murmuring with the other maids in the kitchen, sucked in a great sigh as she escorted them upstairs. Poor Mrs. Fleming would be a long time getting over this night’s work! she and Hedda and Trude said, over and over again, while the professional men were in consultation. Sylvia, who had been lying down, went upstairs with them, Gabrielle waiting restlessly for their opinion.
Almost immediately after they had come down, however, David called her. She went out of the dining room to find him on the stairway.
“Gay, dear, Aunt Flora wants to see you.”
His tone frightened her.
“She’s not very sick?”
“We hope not, dear. But they are not—satisfied. They give no hope. Sylvia’s making her take some broth now. She wants to see you and me and Tom.”
“But, David, we can get her in to Boston, can’t we? Didn’t Hedda say something about an ambulance this afternoon?”
“It’s a question of whether the roads are passable. They are discussing that now.”