The utter helplessness of mind and body which appeared to be upon her as she thus appealed to another, Mr. Tamlyn had rarely seen equalled. Even while listening to Madame St. Vincent’s answer—that they would go if she felt strong enough—her heavy eyelids closed again. In a minute or two she was in a sound sleep. Tamlyn threw caution and Dr. Knox’s injunction to the winds, and spoke on the moment’s impulse to Madame St. Vincent.
“You see,” he observed, pointing to the sleeping face.
“She is only dozing off again.”
“Only! My dear, good lady, this perpetual, stupid, lethargic sleepiness is not natural. You are young, perhaps inexperienced, or you would know it to be not so.”
“I scarcely think it altogether unnatural,” softly dissented madame, with deprecation. “She has really been very poorly.”
“But not sufficiently so to induce this helplessness. It has been upon her for months, and is gaining ground.”
“She is seventy years of age, remember.”
“I know that. But people far older than that are not as she is without some cause: either of natural illness, or—or—something else. Step here a minute, my dear.”
Old Tamlyn walked rapidly to the other window, and stood there talking in low tones, his eyes fixed on Madame St. Vincent, his hand, in his eagerness, touching her shoulder.
“Knox thinks, and has imparted his opinion to me—ay, and his doubts also—that something is being given to her.”