The young man hastened to obey, glad to get away from the sight of that white, rigid face for a moment.
He found a servant in the hall, dispatched him for the family physician, and then went back to his post beside Gladys.
He was nearly as pale as the unconscious bride, for he knew that the truth must soon come out, and, hardened and dogged as he was, the prospect of the inevitable explosion was not a pleasant one.
Mrs. Huntress was on her knees beside her daughter, bathing her face with water, which she had poured from an ice pitcher standing near.
She had thrown back the delicate vail, and it lay all in a heap, like a fleecy cloud, about the pretty brown head upon the sofa pillow, while Mr. Huntress had torn off his gloves, and was chaffing the small limp hands with anxious solicitude.
“What could have been the cause of this? When was she taken ill?” he asked, half turning toward Everet, but still keeping his eyes fastened upon the face he loved so well.
“Just before you entered,” Everet answered, in a clear, natural tone.
Mr. Huntress started, and turned a questioning glance upon him.
Their eyes met, and held each other for one brief moment.
Then Mr. Huntress dropped the hands he was chaffing, arose slowly to his feet, his own color fast receding.