"Oh, sir! come—come to madam; she is very ill!" cried the girl, in a frightened tone.
"I will be there immediately. Send James for the doctor, and then go back to her," commanded her master, as he hurriedly began to dress.
Five minutes later he was in his wife's room, to find her lying upon the lounge, just as he had seen her thirty-six hours previous.
It was evident that she had not been in bed at all for two nights, for she still had on the same dress that she had worn at the Copley Square Hotel.
But the shadow of death was on her white face; her eyes were glazed, and though only partially closed, it was evident that she saw nothing.
She was still breathing, but faintly and irregularly. Her hands were icy cold, and at the base of the nails there was the unmistakable purple tint that indicated approaching dissolution.
Gerald Goddard was shocked beyond measure to find her thus, but he arose to the occasion.
With his own hands and the assistance of the maid, he removed her clothing, then wrapped her in blankets and put her in bed, when he called for hot water bottles to place around her, hoping thus by artificial heat to quicken the sluggish circulation and her failing pulses.
But apparently there was no change in her, and when the physician came and made his examination, he told them plainly that "no effort could avail; it was a case of sudden heart failure, and the end was but a question of moments."
Mr. Goddard was horrified and stricken with remorse at the hopeless verdict, for it seemed to him that he was in a measure accountable for the untimely shock which was fast depriving of life this woman who had loved him so passionately, though unwisely.