“No, not now, not yet; when I am tired I will rest, but it would be useless to try now, and I would rather be doing something.”
“There are carriage wheels,” said Hilary, listening. Gwyneth’s face flushed for one moment, but the color died away as her sister said: “It must be Sybil!”
It was Sybil, not alone either; she was accompanied by her husband’s uncle, a physician whom she had brought with her from London, a gentleman they all knew and liked exceedingly. The relief which the sight of the travelers afforded was very great; but as the patient was sleeping quietly, there was nothing else to be done but to welcome and refresh them.
Mr. Wild, the apothecary, was to call again in an hour or two; he had already hinted at the propriety of calling in more advice, and would, no doubt, be glad to have Dr. Symons to share his responsibility.
The sisters clustered together round the drawing-room fire, for the evening was so chilly that the travelers were glad of its warmth, and spoke in low, anxious tones of their hopes and fears. Sybil’s indignation at the cause of this illness was less suppressed than her sisters; and murmurs of “careless,” “thoughtless,” “unpardonable,” crossed her lips.
Then came Mr. Wild again, and a consultation between him and the physician; and then the sinking spirits with which they listened to the faint encouragements and doubtful words of the doctors. However, it was no time to give way; feeling and fear must be crushed down into the smallest possible space, anticipation must be prohibited, action and energy were what
were now required. Gwyneth took the watch; her sisters were to sleep, and they could sleep all the more quietly, knowing that Dr. Symons was within call, if necessary.
There was scarce a shadow of amendment the next day, to cheer them; but there were no worse symptoms in the sick man; he slept much and heavily in the night, but when awake, pain was lessened, and consciousness more alive. The day passed in slow hours, marked by the changes in the sick room, as one sister after the other took her seat beside the bed. Gwyneth’s restlessness increased hourly, when not stationed there; nothing else seemed to afford her a moment’s quiet. Whatever of active exertion was required, she was the doer of it; she never tired, except of being unemployed, and her quickness of eye, readiness of thought, and lightness of finger, were much praised by Dr. Symons, who little guessed the source whence this unfailing activity sprung.
It was on the afternoon of Saturday, the third of Mr. Duncan’s illness, when, as Gwyneth was crossing the vestibule, the pleasant sunshine streaming in at the open door, tempted her for a short space to pause in the porch. She lingered a minute, the next, as she turned away, a step caught her ear; it was Mr. Ufford. Her first inclination was to draw back, her next, and the governing one, was to advance composedly with extended hand.
There was, perhaps, a little confusion in his countenance as he looked at her; a little surprise at the deadly whiteness of her cheeks, the strange glance of her dark eyes, as he greeted her.