The mother felt a sudden longing to ruffle it softly as she had once done to a village baby’s, and to feel the soft silkiness slip through her fingers, but she restrained herself and only breathed a little quicker.
“You want me, mother?” said Gwen gently, lifting up her head and fastening up her hair.
“Yes, I want you, dear.”
She closed her eyes and rested. Gwen moved uneasily, the stillness oppressed her, and some change in the sick woman’s face made her heart feel tight. Presently Mrs. Waring drew a long breath and threw off some of the clothes feebly.
“They are so heavy,” she said. Mary lifted her higher on the pillows. “Yes, that’s better, thank you, and now, Mary, go and rest. My daughter will stay with me.”
Gwen heard the resolute masterful use of the word, in absolute terror; she had a coerced, trapped feeling, and for a minute a passionate revolt shook her. What was she to do, to say; she felt as if she were caught in a mesh of bleeding quivering nerves, she found herself drawing her breath almost imperceptibly, for fear of touching raw surfaces.
“What is it, mother?” she cried out.
There was a tone of appeal in her voice, born of her terror. This strengthened her mother; she felt older than her child and with the power to protect her. The ghost of a smile moved her mouth and flickered in her eyes.
“It is death, dear,” she said, with gentle gravity.
Gwen stared at her and in an uncomprehending rigid way she repeated—“Death, death!”