—"I slew
Myself in that instant! a ruffian lies
Somewhere. Your slave, see, born in his place."
—Browning.
In the closed room within there was a pause. The sound of weeping died away, as though the master's voice had forced even anguish into the silence of terror. Grover answered him at length in sudden haste, as though anything would be better than to risk his anger. There followed a muttering and murmuring, as though the maid were imploring her mistress to command herself. Gaunt shook with rage and helplessness.
Thereafter the door was softly opened, elaborately closed, and Grover, her own eyes suspiciously red, emerged and stood before him. For one moment he hoped he might have been mistaken. "Was it you making that noise?" he asked thickly; and as she hesitated, he added in haste:
"Give me the truth, please, Grover."
Perhaps something in his voice excited the woman's pity. At any rate, she rejected the way out which his random words had suggested. It had been on her tongue to say yes, it was she—she had conjured up toothache, a fall downstairs, a family bereavement, wondering which would sound the most convincing, and was forced to reject all.
"It was Mrs. Gaunt," she faltered baldly.
"Well, what's the matter? Out with it. What makes her cry like that—eh?"
"She's had bad noos, sir. Noos of her little sister. She's fair broken-hearted—it's awful to see her——" The kind soul's voice failed, and she applied her handkerchief to her quivering mouth.
"Good heavens! The child's not dead, is she?"
"No, sir; but she's in agony, and calling for her sister. They seem to think she can't live, sir—the treatment has made her worse——"