"Why, Mrs. Hill, what do you mean?" remonstrated the agent. "I intended no harm, and I have done no harm. But what a pitiable thing about Mr. Chandos!"
"Doctors are not oracles always," snapped Hill. "My opinion's as good as his, and I know Mr. Chandos will get better: there's every chance that he'll be about to-morrow. The bad symptoms seem to be going off as sudden as they came on."
"Hill," I whispered, laying hold of her gown as she was flouncing past me, "you say he may be about to-morrow; but will he get well eventually?"
"That's another affair," answered Hill.
"Dr. Amos said it had been coming on a long while," I pursued, detaining her still. "What complaint is it?"
"It's just a complaint that you had better not ask about, for your curiosity can't be satisfied, Miss Hereford," was Hill's response, as she broke away.
Broke away, leaving me. In my dreadful uncertainty, I went up to Hickens, who was standing still, looking so sad, and asked him to tell me what was the matter with Mr. Chandos.
"I don't know any more than you, Miss. Mr. Chandos has had a vast deal of grief and trouble, and it may be telling upon him. He has looked ill of late."
No comfort anywhere—no comfort. How I got through the day I don't know. It seemed as if I had received my death-knell, instead of he his.
Hill's opinion, in one respect, proved to be a correct one, for the next day Mr. Chandos appeared to the household. He came down about twelve o'clock, looking pale and subdued—but so he often looked—and I must say I could not detect much change in him. Starting from my seat in the oak-parlour, as he entered it, went up to him in the impulse of the moment. He took both my hands.