Her face was pale, her eyes grave and gentle, the picture of her as she appeared at that moment dwelt in Martin’s mind, and brought with it a startled recognition of his sister’s charm, then in a flash, she stiffened; the softness passed from the eyes, and was replaced by a chilly scorn. This was a love scene upon which she had intruded,—Grizel flushed, protesting, Martin flushed, appealing, and her own name “Katrine” bandied upon his lip—no doubt to be waved aside, as an obstacle blocking the way.
It was in a voice icily bereft of expression that she delivered her message:
“I have just taken a message for you, Grizel. They have rung up to say that Lady Griselda is worse. You are wanted at home at once.”
Chapter Eleven.
Lady Griselda Dundas lay a-dying on her great oak bed. For two long weeks after Grizel’s summons home she had lingered on, until now her aquiline features were attenuated to a knife-like sharpness, and every particle of flesh seemed to have departed from the skeleton form, but the eyes were alive, conscious, yet with a puzzled wistfulness in their glance. Her brain had cleared, as often happens immediately before the great change; the present was clear, but over the past the cloud still hung.
“I—can’t remember!” she reiterated feebly. “It’s all blank. What have I been doing these last weeks, Grizel? Where have I been?”
Grizel knelt by the bedside, her warm hands clasped over the icy fingers. She wore a soft white dressing-gown, and her hair hung in a long plait down her back. She had been sleeping on a sofa at the end of the room, but now it was two o’clock, and there was a look in the old woman’s face which made her determine to keep close at hand. Nevertheless there was no sorrow in her face; the smile with which she spoke was as usual, sweet and unperturbed.
“You have been here, Buddy; in this house; in these rooms, and I’ve been with you, except for a few days. Everything has gone on just the same...”