“No, he is just the same; perhaps a trifle more conscious and weaker; that is all.”
“And there is no hope?”
“None; all the doctors agree in saying that. His health has been breaking for years, and the sudden shock was too much for him. No; it is no use deceiving ourselves; no change can happen but the worst.”
“Poor Mrs. Trafford.”
“Ah, you would say so if you could see her; Percy’s death has utterly broken her down; but she is very brave, and will not spare herself. We think Uncle Rolf knows her, and likes to have her near him; he always seems restless and uneasy if she leaves the room. But indeed the difficulty is to induce her to take needful rest.”
“You are looking ill yourself, dear Erle,” she returned, tenderly; but at that moment Lady Maltravers re-entered, and Erle looked at his watch.
“I must go now,” he said, hastily; and though Evelyn followed him out into the corridor there were no fond lingering words. “Good-bye, Eva; take care of yourself,” he said, kissing her; and then he went away, and Evelyn went back into the room with a heavy heart. He had been very kind, but he had not once said that he was glad to see her back; and again she told herself that something had come between them.
But there was no opportunity for coming to any understanding, for the shadows were closing round Belgrave House, and the Angel of Death was standing before the threshold.
Ah! the end was drawing near now. Mr. Huntingdon was dying.
He had never recovered consciousness, or seemed to recognize the faces round him; not even his favorite Erle, or the daughter who fed and soothed him like an infant; and yet in a dim sort of way he seemed conscious of her presence. He would wail after her if she left him, and his withered hands would grope upon the coverlet in a feeble, restless way, but never once did he articulate her name.