“What’s that?” cried RoBards.
“Nothing! Nothing much!” she gasped, but when he knelt by her side she drooped across his shoulder, broken with the terrible power of sympathy, and sobbed:
“Mist’ RoBards, I’m afraid!”
CHAPTER XLVIII
Within the silken walls of Patty’s body, still beautiful as a jar of rose leaves, a secret enemy was brooding, building. A tulip tree, a tree of death was pushing its roots all through her flesh.
There had been no pain at first and nothing to warn her that life was confusedly conspiring against itself.
Then there were subtle distresses, strange shafts of anguish like javelins thrown from ambush. Her suspicions were so terrifying that she had feared to see a doctor.
But now RoBards compelled her to go with him to consult an eminent surgeon. She endured his professional scrutiny, his rude caresses. At last he spoke with a dreadful kindliness and did not rebuke her as of old for indiscretions or neglects. He told her that there was trouble within that needed attention as soon as she was a little stronger. She smiled wanly and went out to the waiting carriage.
To RoBards who lingered for a last word, Dr. Marlowe whispered: “For Christ’s sake, don’t tell her. It’s cancer!”
If death could have come to him from fright, RoBards would have died then. He toppled as if he had been smitten with the back of a broadsword.