She had only a slight attack of pleurisy, nothing to account for her quick run down, but her heart was very weak and irregular, the old doctor said, and he asked for an opinion from town.
The shock of the thing had a queer effect on Mr. Waring, even from a physical point of view.
As he sat hour by hour and watched her in a dumb vague horror, one hand always in his, his breath came in short gasps with strong pain, his eyes grew congested, his lips turned a dull blue, and dried and cracked, the very blood slowed in his veins.
The old doctor sounded him anxiously as soon as he noticed his condition, and found his lungs as sound as a bell. It was only that the two were absolutely one flesh; she could suffer nothing and leave him untouched. She was so sorry for him and whenever she could gather up her strength for the effort, she put a great strain on herself to breathe naturally, but hour by hour her power over herself grew less, and her breathing more constantly laborious.
And Gwen? Fear had found her at last, and it tore and tortured her. She knew very little of sickness, and in this sickness of her mother’s there was a pale ghastly shade of some other thing that touched the infinities.
She went in and out of her mother’s room in a vague search after duty, but she never touched even her bed; she was afraid of the awful shadowy thing, and more afraid still of her mother’s eyes following her hungrily. No softening grew in her eyes, no love—only fear.
And so the days wore on and the hush fell closer round the house, and crept into the hearts of those that dwelt there.
Yet there seemed small cause for it all, the doctors saw no tangible reason for alarm, and yet they were uneasy and came frequently.
It was the eighth day of the illness, just as twilight was falling.
Mrs. Waring had had her bed moved near the window that commanded the Park, and she was looking wistfully out on to the south terrace watching Gwen walking up and down.