"She is calmer than she was," said Mr. Voss. "The first alarm and
suspense broke her right down, and she was insensible for some
hours. But she is bearing it better now--much better than I had
hoped for."
"I will go to see her at once. Oh, if I knew how to comfort her!"
To this Mr. Voss made no response, but Mrs. Birtwell, who was
looking into his, face, saw an expression that she did not
understand.
"She will see me, of course?"
"I do not know. Perhaps you'd better not go round yet. It might
disturb her too much, and the doctor says she must be kept as quiet
as possible."
Something in the manner of Mr. Voss sent a chill to the heart of
Mrs. Birtwell. She felt an evasion in his reply. Then a suspicion of
the truth flashed upon her mind, overwhelming her with a flood of
bitterness in which shame, self-reproach, sorrow and distress were
mingled. It was from her hand, so to speak, that the son of her
friend had taken the wine which had bewildered his senses, and from
her house that he had gone forth with unsteady step and confused
brain to face a storm the heaviest and wildest that had been known
for years. If he were dead, would not the stain of his blood be on
her garments?
No marvel that Mr. Voss had said, "Not yet; it might disturb her too
much." Disturb the friend with whose heart her own had beaten in
closest sympathy and tenderest love for years--the friend who had
flown to her in the deepest sorrow she had ever known and held her
to her heart until she was comforted by the sweet influences of
love.
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