“Madam, I have done, and am doing, everything I can to save your husband’s life, and – ”
He ceased speaking, for he saw her lips part in a smile, and her wild eyes grew soft and humid, as, with a little laugh, she said —
“Dearest Rob! My husband!” Then she loosed the hand she held, laid hers upon the head of the couch, and bending down she softly pressed her lips against the patient’s brow, while a feeling of bitter jealousy sent the blood surging through Chester’s brain, till the eyes were turned again to his, and, with a look that sent every forming manly intention flying to the winds, she said softly —
“Why did you think that? Doctor, for a poor, pleading woman’s sake, give up all thought of going. I could not bear it. There – look – his face is growing convulsed,” she whispered in a quick, agitated tone, “And you talk of going! He is dying. Robert! Robert! Oh, doctor, do you not see?”
Chapter Five.
Aunt Grace Sows the Seed of Discontent
Laura Chester possessed what her aunt termed a bad habit.
“You are so restless, my dear,” said that lady. “Why can’t you stay in your bed of a morning, and then come down at a Christian-like hour?”
“Nine o’clock, aunt dear,” said the girl, smiling.
“Well, say a quarter to, my dear, because that gives ample time to ring for the urn and make the tea, though nine is really a very nice hour. It is not right for a young lady to be racing downstairs before seven o’clock and dusting; and I do not really like for you to be going out for walks at such early hours.”
“London is at its best before breakfast, aunt; everything looks so fresh and bright.”
“What nonsense, my dear! Nothing of the kind. The steps are not cleaned, and there is nobody about but sweeps and dustmen, and milk carts.”
“Oh yes, aunt dear,” cried Laura, merrily. “London is very busy then, and I wish I could get you to come. Covent Garden is lovely quite early with the flowers and fruit.”
“My dear Laura, to hear you talk anyone would think your poor dear papa had been a greengrocer. Pray, do, my dear, try and give up the bad habit. I really don’t know what Isabel must think.”
But the habit only grew stronger, and on the morning after her brother’s sudden call, Laura slipped out while cook was cleaning the steps and went off to Covent Garden to return with a bunch of roses and a basket of strawberries which had been picked that morning nine miles down the western road.
The breakfast was ready, and she was giving the last touches to her arrangement of flowers and fruit upon the table when Isabel joined her, looking as fresh as the flowers in the little shallow bowl.
“Oh, Laury, I am so ashamed at being so late,” she cried, after an affectionate kiss had been exchanged. “I was afraid I was last.”
“Oh no, dear; auntie is not down,” said Laura, glancing at the clock. “She’ll be ten minutes yet.”
“Is she always so punctual?”
“Yes. She does not leave her room till the church clock begins to strike. She is very proud of being so exact.”
“Is – is – ”
“Fred down? No, dear. There! don’t blush, goosey. I expect he was kept late last night, and he loses so much rest, that we never disturb him. He has his breakfast at all sorts of times, but it will be at nine this morning.”
This was accompanied by an arch look.
“Oh, how sweet the flowers are!” cried Isabel, turning away to hide the heightened colour in her cheeks.
“Yes, dear,” said Laura, banteringly, “and life now is all roses and sweets, and the sky was never so blue, and the London sparrows’ ‘chiswick, chiswick’ sounds like the song of nightingales, doesn’t it? Heigho! I wish I were in love, and someone loved me, and put his arm round my waist and took me for walks along the primrose path of dalliance.”
There was a light step behind her, two arms were passed about her waist, a soft, white chin rested upon her shoulder, and a rounded cheek was pressed to hers.
“Don’t tease me, Laury darling,” was whispered. “I can’t help feeling all you say, and looking very weak and stupid now.”
“Tease you, my own sweet!” cried Laura, swinging round to embrace in turn. “No, of course I won’t. It’s only my nasty envy, hatred and malice, because I can’t be as happy as you. There – and there – and there!”
Three kisses, and Isabel started away.
“Fred’s coming!” she whispered.
“No. That’s auntie’s soft, pudgy step. Fred comes down thump, thump, like a wooden-legged man.”
“Laury!”
“Oh, well, he doesn’t notice where he’s going. He’s always thinking of operations and that sort of thing. Good-morning, aunt dear.”
“Good-morning, Isabel, my child – morning, Laura.”
“Aren’t you well, dear? You look so serious.”
“Yes, Laura, I look serious. It’s a sad world.”
The girls exchanged glances, and with melancholy mien the old lady rang the bell for breakfast, and then dropped into her seat with a weary sigh.
“No letters, Laura?”
“No, aunt dear. There’s a lovely rose instead.”
“Thank you, Laura. Dear, dear! no one writes to me now. I don’t know why one should go on living when one grows old.”
“Because Fred and I want you, dear,” cried Laura, merrily, “and Bel too. Put two more spoonfuls in the pot, aunt dear. A hot cup of tea will do you good.”
“Nothing will ever do me good again,” sighed the old lady, shaking her head mournfully.
“Oh yes, it will, dear; and Fred likes his tea strong.”
“Yes, yes, very strong, my dear; and always preaches at me if I take it only just coloured. I sometimes think it’s because he thinks I cost too much.”
“Now, auntie, how can you?” cried Laura. “Don’t you believe her, Bel.”
“I do not,” said the girl, smiling. “Poor aunt is not well this morning.”
“How can I be, my child, knowing as I do that my little bit of property is slowly wasting away, and – ”
“Here’s the urn, aunt,” cried Laura. “Shall I make the tea?”
“Certainly not, my dear. Let me, pray, enjoy the last few privileges of my age while I am here. I do not mean in this house, Isabel, my child, but living out my last weary span.”
“Auntie darling,” said Laura, tenderly, getting up as soon as the maid had placed tea-urn and covered dishes upon the table, “don’t be so miserable this morning
