“I hope I shall cause you no more anxiety, my dear mother, on the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt.”
In the deep silence I could hear the pen of my secretary traveling steadily over the paper while it wrote those words.
“Have you written?” I asked, as the sound of the pen ceased.
“I have written,” she answered, in her customary quiet tones.
I went on again with my letter.
“The days pass now, and I seldom or never think of her; I hope I am resigned at last to the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt.”
As I reached the end of the sentence, I heard a faint cry from Miss Dunross. Looking instantly toward her, I could just see, in the deepening darkness, t hat her head had fallen on the back of the chair. My first impulse was, of course, to rise and go to her. I had barely got to my feet, when some indescribable dread paralyzed me on the instant. Supporting myself against the chimney-piece, I stood perfectly incapable of advancing a step. The effort to speak was the one effort that I could make.
“Are you ill?” I asked.
She was hardly able to answer me; speaking in a whisper, without raising her head.
“I am frightened,” she said.