Some one else came in just then, though she did not hear. It was the doctor, who came and took her by the arm to raise her. “Run away, my dear; run upstairs till I see what is to be done,” he said. “Somebody take her away.”
Cicely rose up quickly. “I cannot awake him,” she said. “Doctor, I am so glad you have come, though he would not let me send yesterday. I think he must be in a faint.”
“Go away, go away, my dear.”
It neither occurred to the poor girl to obey him nor to think what he meant. She stood by breathless while he looked at the motionless figure in the chair, and took into his own the grey cold hand which hung helpless by Mr. St. John’s side. Cicely did not look at her father, but at the doctor, to know what it was; and round the door the group of men gazed too awestricken, with Betsy, whom curiosity and the attraction of terror had brought downstairs, and one or two labourers from the village passing to their morning’s work, who had come in, drawn by the strange fascination of what had happened, and staring too.
“Hours ago,” said the doctor to himself, shaking his head; “he is quite cold; who saw him last?”
“O doctor, do something!” cried Cicely, clasping her hands; “don’t lose time; don’t let him be like this; do something—oh, do something, doctor! Don’t you know that we are going to-day?”
He turned round upon her very gently, and the group at the door moved with a rustling movement of sympathy. Betsy fell a crying loudly, and some of the men put their hands to their eyes. The doctor took Cicely by the arm, and turned her away with gentle force.
“My dear, you must come with me. I want to speak to you in the next room.”
“But papa?” she cried.
“My poor child,” said the compassionate doctor, “we can do nothing for him now.”