Her voice died away, and her head drooped forward on her arm. Captain Cavendish bent tenderly over her, as she lay on a sofa, with a pale and anxious face.
"My darling," he said, "I am afraid you are very ill. Let me go for Dr. Leach—this may be something serious."
But Miss Henderson positively refused, and insisted on their returning to the ball.
"I shall lie down and go asleep," she said, "and I will be quite restored to-morrow. Go at once."
"I shall go," the captain said, holding her hands, "but not back to the ball. Do you think there could be any pleasure for me there, and you absent, Olive? Good night, my love—get rid of this white face before I see you to-morrow."
Olive Henderson slept that night, but it was more like stupor than healthful sleep, and she awoke with a dully throbbing headache, and a numbing sense of misery at her heart. She had arisen in the black and wretched dawn of that miserable May morning, and had sat staring vacantly out at the ceaseless rain, and dark and turbid sea. She was not thinking—she was sitting there in a dull torpor of despair, waiting for the end.
There was a knock at the door. It had to be repeated two or three times before she comprehended what it meant, and then she arose and opened the door. It was Rosie, the housemaid; and the girl recoiled at sight of her, as if she had seen a ghost.
"My patience, Miss! how bad you do look! I am afraid you are worse than you was last night."
"No. What is it you want?"
"It's a gentleman, Miss, that has called, and is in the drawing-room, although it is raining cats and dogs."