It was verging on midnight when Chalfont came out of the sick room to
hear the result of Alexandra's errand. The moment he saw that she was
alone, limp and tired from her journey, he knew it had failed. He had
had the forethought to have some cold supper ready for her, and while
she ate a little of it and drank the glass of champagne which he
insisted on her taking, he answered her many questions about Mrs.
Lambert. In tones of sad resignation he told her that the operation had
been successful but that there was little hope. She had taken the
anesthetic badly and was still under its influence.
"So Lambert wouldn't come?" he asked, when the painful subject was
exhausted.
"I believe he was willing to come," she replied. "I saw him alone first.
But Miss Mantel came in and dissuaded him. It was a last night. He had
to make a speech. She urged him to stay. He's very weak, I think. He
said he would come in the morning. Can I go to her?"
"Better not. The nurse will let us know when she is conscious. It
oughtn't to be long now. Lie down on the sofa and try to sleep."
She was too anxious for that, so they sat waiting, for hours as it
seemed. Now and again they talked, but most of the time absorbed and
troubled thought held them silent. No sound came from the next room.
Presently its quiet was broken by the monotonous drone of a man's voice.
Alexandra sat up, listening.
"Who is that?" she asked.
"The priest. He's with her."
Twice they heard a faint murmur mingled with a low intoning. Another
half-hour passed. Then the priest came noiselessly into the room. He
drew Chalfont on one side and they spoke together in whispers.
Presently the latter beckoned to Alexandra.
"Come," he said; and the three went into the sick room.
A light, carefully screened, threw the bed in shadow, but not
sufficiently to hide the still form that lay upon it. Although the
pallor of death was in Mrs. Lambert's face, it seemed to have grown
youthful. She looked like a child asleep. Her eyes were closed. They
could not tell whether she was aware of their presence or not. The
priest stood at the foot of the bed lost in prayer. The nurses, still
and white like statues, watched from a distance.
Chalfont, kneeling with a hand laid gently on that of the woman he
loved, broke the long silence.
"Speak to us," he implored.
She heard his voice and opened her eyes. They had a spectral look, and
as she turned them from him to Alexandra an expression of concern crept
into her face. She murmured something faintly.
"Your husband will be here in the morning, dearest," he said softly but
distinctly, trying to stimulate her to consciousness.
Some weighty thought was affecting her mind. Her eyes were on Chalfont.
She seemed to be making an effort to say something.
"That poor girl ... that nice girl..."
Chalfont bent low, fearful of losing the whispered words.
"What poor girl, dear?"