“It is an attorney, probably, rather than a barrister, that is needed; but under the circumstances, and knowing her as I do, I cannot hesitate.”

We were soon bowling along at a rapid pace, and in little more than an hour reached the dying lady’s residence, situated in the county of Essex, and distant about ten miles from London.  We entered together; and Dr. Curteis, leaving me in the library, proceeded at once to the sick chamber.  About ten minutes afterwards the housekeeper, a tall, foreign-looking, and rather handsome woman, came into the room, and announced that the doctor wished to see me.  She was deadly pale, and, I observed, trembled like an aspen.  I motioned her to precede me; and she, with unsteady steps, immediately led the way.  So great was her agitation, that twice, in ascending the stairs, she only saved herself from falling by grasping the banister-rail.  The presage I drew from the exhibition of such overpowering emotion, by a person whom I knew to have been long not only in the service, but in the confidence of Mrs. Armitage, was soon confirmed by Dr. Curteis, whom we met coming out of the chamber of the expiring patient.

“Step this way,” said he, addressing me, and leading to an adjoining apartment.  “We do not require your attendance, Mrs. Bourdon,” said he, as soon as we reached it, to the housekeeper, who had swiftly followed us, and now stood staring with eager eyes in the doctor’s face, as if life and death hung on his lips.  “Have the goodness to leave us,” he added tartly, perceiving she did not stir, but continued her fearful, scrutinizing glance.  She started at his altered tone, flushed crimson, then paled to a chalky whiteness, and muttering, left the apartment.

“The danger of her mistress has bewildered her,” I remarked.

“Perhaps so,” remarked Dr. Curteis.  “Be that as it may, Mrs. Armitage is beyond all human help.  In another hour she will be, as we say, no more.”

“I feared so.  What is the nature of her disorder?”

“A rapid wasting away, as I am informed.  The appearances presented are those of a person expiring of atrophy, or extreme emaciation.”

“Indeed.  And so sudden too!”

“Yes.  I am glad you are come, although your professional services will not, it seems, be required—­a neighboring attorney having performed the necessary duty—­something, I believe, relative to the will of the dying lady.  We will speak further together by and by.  In the meantime,” continued Dr. Curteis, with a perceptible tremor in his voice, “it will do neither of us any harm to witness the closing scene of the life of Mary Rawdon, whom you and I twenty years ago worshipped as one of the gentlest and most beautiful of beings with which the Creator ever graced his universe.  It will be a peaceful parting.  Come.”

Just as, with noiseless footsteps, we entered the silent death-chamber, the last rays of the setting sun were falling upon the figure of Ellen Armitage—­who knelt in speechless agony by the bedside of her expiring parent—­and faintly lighting up the pale, emaciated, sunken features of the so lately brilliant, courted Mrs. Armitage!  But for the ineffaceable splendor of her deep-blue eyes, I should scarcely have recognized her.  Standing in the shadow, as thrown by the heavy bed-drapery, we gazed and listened unperceived.