With a queer abandonment, unlike herself, Rose climbed on the bed, curling herself up beside George and holding his hand. The minutes ticked by. Jenny, feeling awkward and self-conscious, sat in the basket armchair by the fireplace. Dr. Mount moved quietly about the room—as in a dream Rose watched him set two lighted candles on the little table by the bed. There was absolute silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Rose began to feel herself again—the attack was over—George would be all right—it was a pity that Gervase had gone for Mr. Luce. She began to feel herself ridiculous, curled up with George in the bed ... she had better get out before Sir John came and sneered at her very useful flannel dressing-gown ... then suddenly, as she looked down on it, George’s face changed—once more the look of anguish convulsed it, and he started up in bed, clutching his side and fighting for his breath.
It seemed an age, though it was really only a few minutes, that the fight lasted. Rose had no time to be afraid or even pitiful, for Dr. Mount apparently could do nothing without her—as she rather proudly remembered afterwards, he wouldn’t let Jenny help at all, but turned to Rose for everything. She had just begun to think how horrible the room smelt with drugs and brandy, when there was a sound of wheels below in the drive.
“That’s Gervase,” said Jenny.
“Or perhaps it’s Sir John....”
But it was Gervase—the next minute he came into the room.
“I’ve brought him,” he said—“is everything ready?”
“Yes, quite ready,” said Dr. Mount.
Then Rose saw standing behind Gervase outside the door a tall stooping figure in a black cloak, under which its arms were folded over something that it carried on its breast.
The Lord had come suddenly to Leasan Parsonage.
Immediately panic seized her, a panic which became strangely fused with anger. She sprang forward and would have shut the door.