The next day there was no change in Mr. Lord’s
condition; a deep silence possessed the house.
In the afternoon Nancy went to pass an hour with Jessica
Morgan; on her return she met Samuel Barmby, who was
just leaving after a visit to the sick man. Samuel
bore himself with portentous gravity, but spoke only
a few commonplaces, affecting hope; he bestowed upon
Nancy’s hand a fervent pressure, and strode
away with the air of an undertaker who had called on
business.
Two more days of deepening gloom, then a night through
which Nancy sat with Mary Woodruff by her father’s
bed. Mr. Lord was unconscious, but from time
to time a syllable or a phrase fell from his lips,
meaningless to the watchers. At dawn, Nancy went
to her chamber, pallid, exhausted. Mary, whose
strength seemed proof against fatigue, moved about
the room, preparing for a new day; every few minutes
she stood with eyes fixed on the dying face, and the
tears she had restrained in Nancy’s presence
flowed silently.
When the sun made a golden glimmer upon the wall,
Mary withdrew, and was absent for a quarter of an
hour. On returning, she bent at once over the
bed; her eyes were met by a grave, wondering look.
‘Do you know me?’ she whispered.
The lips moved; she bent lower, but could distinguish
no word. He was speaking; the murmur continued;
but she gathered no sense.
‘You can trust me, I will do all I can.’
He seemed to understand her, and smiled. As the
smile faded away, passing into an austere calm, Mary
pressed her lips upon his forehead.
After breakfast, and before Arthur Peachey’s
departure for business, there had been a scene of
violent quarrel between him and his wife. It
took place in the bed-room, where, as usual save on
Sunday morning, Ada consumed her strong tea and heavily
buttered toast; the state of her health—she
had frequent ailments, more or less genuine, such
as afflict the indolent and brainless type of woman—
made it necessary for her to repose till a late hour.
Peachey did not often lose self-control, though sorely
tried; the one occasion that unchained his wrath was
when Ada’s heedlessness or ill-temper affected
the well-being of his child. This morning it had
been announced to him that the nurse-girl, Emma, could
no longer be tolerated; she was making herself offensive
to her mistress, had spoken insolently, disobeyed
orders, and worst of all, defended herself by alleging
orders from Mr. Peachey. Hence the outbreak of
strife, signalled by furious shrill voices, audible
to Beatrice and Fanny as they sat in the room beneath.
Ada came down at half-past ten, and found Beatrice
writing letters. She announced what any who did
not know her would have taken for a final resolve.
’I’m going—I won’t put
up with that beast any longer. I shall go and
live at Brighton.’
Her sister paid not the slightest heed; she was intent
upon a business letter of much moment.
