"Travellers!"
A very few words more brought out the whole, and Mrs. Rossitur sprang out of bed, and rushed to her daughter's room.
Fleda hid her face in the bed to cry for a moment's passionate indulgence in weeping while no one could see. But a moment was all. There was work to do, and she must not disable herself. She slowly got up, feeling thankful that her headache did not announce itself with the dawn, and that she would be able to attend to the morning affairs and the breakfast, which was something more of a circumstance now with the new additions to the family. More than that, she knew, from sure signs, she would not be able to accomplish.
It was all done, and done well, though with what secret flagging of mind and body nobody knew or suspected. The business of the day was arranged, Barby's course made clear, Hugh visited and smiled upon; and then Fleda set herself down in the breakfast-room to wear out the rest of the day in patient suffering. Her little spaniel, who seemed to understand her languid step and faint tones, and know what was coming, crept into her lap and looked up at her with a face of equal truth and affection; and after a few gentle acknowledging touches from the loved hand, laid his head on her knees, and silently avowed his determination of abiding her fortunes for the remainder of the day.
They had been there for some hours. Mrs. Rossitur and her daughter were gathered in Hugh's room; whither Rolf also, after sundry expressions of sympathy for Fleda's headache, finding it a dull companion, had departed. Pain of body, rising above pain of mind, had obliged, as far as possible, even thought to be still; when a loud lap at the front door brought the blood in a sudden flush of pain to Fleda's face. She knew instinctively what it meant.
She heard Barby's distinct accents saying that somebody was "not well." The other voice was more smothered. But in a moment the door of the breakfast-room opened, and Mr. Thorn walked in.
The intensity of the pain she was suffering effectually precluded Fleda from discovering emotion of any kind. She could not move. Only King lifted up his head and looked at the intruder, who seemed shocked, and well he might. Fleda was in her old headache position bolt upright on the sofa, her feet on the rung of a chair, while her hands supported her by their grasp upon the back of it. The flush had passed away, leaving the deadly paleness of pain, which the dark rings under her eyes showed to be well seated.
"Miss Ringgan!" said the gentleman, coming up softly, as to something that frightened him "my dear Miss Fleda! I am distressed! You are very ill. Can nothing be done to relieve you?"
Fleda's lips rather than her voice said, "Nothing."
"I would not have come in on any account to disturb you if I had known I did not understand you were more than a trifle ill."