The announcement of dinner and Mrs. Chester came together. When that lady saw who was in the drawing-room lying on the sofa, like a picture of a ghost more than a living woman, she set up a commotion. What did Clara mean by it? Did she come out of her room on purpose to renew her illness? She must go back to it again. Clara simply shook her head by way of dissent, and Mr. Lake interposed, saying she should stay if she wished: she would get no harm in the warm room.
They went in to dinner. Not Clara; what little solid food she could take yet was eaten in the middle of the day. There was a fowl on the table; and Mr. Lake, leaving his own dinner to get cold, prepared to carry a piece of it to his wife.
"It will be of no use," said Mrs. Chester to him, in rather a cross tone, as if she thought the morsel was going to be wasted; but he quitted the room, paying no attention.
He found his wife in a perfect paroxysm of tears, sobbing wildly. Left alone, her long pent-up feelings had given way. Putting the plate on the table, he bent over her--
"My dearest, this will never do. Why do you grieve so? What is the matter?"
"Oh, you know! you know!" she answered.
There was a dead pause. She employed it in smothering and choking down her sobs; he in any reflection that might be agreeable to him.
"I want to go home."
"The very instant that you may go with safety, you shall go," he readily assented. "If the doctor says you may go tomorrow, Clara, why we will. I must not have my dear little wife grieve like this."
No response. She seemed quite exhausted.