When her gossips had gone home, after vainly offering their assistance, Andrew came in and found the housekeeper holding on to her head with one hand, while with the other she did work which there was not the least need of doing. He had been watching with great interest the progress of her malady, and perceived that it was near the crisis.
The supper-hour had been casually mentioned in the priest's message as about seven o'clock. At half-past six Jane could not suppress an occasional moan of pain; and at ten minutes before seven she consigned the supper, which was all prepared, to the care of Andrew, and staggered into her own room, holding on by chairs and tables as she went. She would not, perhaps, have indulged in such violent symptoms had she seen the smiles with which her fellow-servant beheld her tottering progress across the room. Fully persuaded that she had vanquished his scepticism, and half convinced herself that she was suffering severely, Jane set herself to listen for the priest's coming.
Seven o'clock came, but not F. Chevreuse; half-past seven, and still he had not appeared.
Jane stole out into the kitchen, scarcely able to stand, and renewed the spoiling dishes. She did not wish to leave anything to be complained of, meaning to be herself the only one ill-used. At length she heard a foot on the door-step, [pg 495] and, making haste to shut herself into her room, with only a very little opening left, Jane became a prey to grief and pain.
All these movements Andrew had listened to with great edification; but what Andrew did not know was that the invalid, skurrying out to stand at the foot of the stairs when she heard talking in the room above, had had the pleasure of listening to the whole conversation regarding her state of health.
Ten minutes after, F. Chevreuse, without much surprise, it must be owned, saw his housekeeper coming feebly into the room where he sat at table, her face red and swollen with laborious weeping, and expressing chief among its varied emotions and sentiments a saint-like and anxious desire and determination to sacrifice herself to the utmost rather than omit the smallest possible duty.
It was an unwelcome vision. There was a point beyond which even he did not want to have his sympathies drained. He felt that he was human, and would like to rest both mind and body.
“I am afraid, F. Chevreuse,” she began, in a very sick voice, leaning against the side of the door—“I am afraid that your toast is too dry. I made it fresh three times....”
“Never mind, Jane,” he interrupted, rather impatiently. “It does very well. You need not trouble yourself.”
Jane came into the room a few tottering steps, and rested on the back of a chair.