About a week afterwards, just when Priscilla seemed to be getting a little better—she had been delirious, but her senses had returned—and Mrs. Allen, who had been in the house all day, had departed, a change for the worse took place, and the doctor was summoned. George, sitting in the parlour alone, heard Nurse Barton come downstairs.
“My dear boy,” she said as she entered, “God in His mercy strengthen you in this trial as He has laid upon you, but I thought I’d just come and tell you myself. The doctor wor a-comm’, but I said ‘No; my boy shall hear it from me.’ I don’t think as your wife will get better; she don’t seem to pull herself up a bit. She a’nt got no strength no more than a fly. You’d better see her, I think.”
“Who is there?”
“Her mother and the doctor.”
“Can’t you get rid of them?”
“All right, my dear. I must stay with you both, but you won’t mind me—God bless you!” and the woman put her arms round George’s neck and kissed him tenderly.
She returned, and presently she redeemed her promise, for she actually got Mrs. Broad away. At first she was obstinate, but Priscilla whispered that she wished to see her husband alone, and the doctor took upon him to warn Mrs. Broad that resistance on her part might be dangerous. She then retreated with him, and George found himself by the bedside. His wife was so prostrate that she was hardly able to make herself heard, but she lifted up her finger and made a sign that he should bend his head down to her. He bent it down, and her damp brown hair—the beautiful brown hair he had loved so—lay on his forehead, and its scent was all about him once more.
“George, my dear,” she just breathed out, “I am a poor silly girl, but I always loved you.”
He stopped her instantly with his kisses, but Death had stopped her too. He recoiled for a moment, and with a sudden scream. “O God, she’s gone!” he fell into the arms of his nurse, who stood behind him.