But that evening the insidious disease from which the girl was suffering withdrew the treacherous semblance of health it had lent to her burning cheeks, and it was obvious that she had grown rapidly worse. They all saw it, and would not confess it to each other. They only noticed that Mrs. Anerley did not stir now from Dove's bedside.
Mr. Anerley spent nearly the whole of that night in walking up and down his own room—from time to time stealthily receiving messages, for they would not admit to Dove that they felt much anxiety about her. The man seemed to have grown greyer; or perhaps it was the utter wretchedness of his face that made him look so old and careworn. Will sate in an easy-chair, gloomily staring into the fire. The appointment he had so eagerly sought and so joyfully gained, fancying it was to bring them all back again into pleasant circumstances, was only a bitter mockery now. He could not bear to think of it. He could bear to think of nothing when this terrible issue was at stake in the next room.
In the morning, when the first grey light was sufficiently clear to show Dove's face to the nurse and Mrs. Anerley, the latter looked at the girl for a long time.
"Why do you look at me so, mamma?" she asked.
She could not answer. She went into the next room, and crying, "Oh, Hubert, Hubert, go and look at my Dove's face!" burst into tears on her husband's bosom. And yet there was nothing remarkable about the girl's face—except, perhaps, to one who had watched it critically all the night through, and was alarmed by the transition from the ruddy lamplight to the grey and haggard tone of the morning.
The doctor came, and went away again, saying nothing.
Towards the forenoon, Dove said to Will—
"I want to hear 'The Coulin'——"
"Not 'The Coulin,' Dove," he pleaded.
"When Miss Brunel comes, perhaps she will play it. The music is simple. Put it on the piano—and—and send for her."