How could they say these things of Rachel?  Had any one yesterday seriously believed that Rachel was dying?  They had been engaged for four weeks.  A fortnight ago she had been perfectly well.  What could fourteen days have done to bring her from that state to this?  To realise what they meant by saying that she had a chance of life was beyond him, knowing as he did that they were engaged.  He turned, still enveloped in the same dreary mist, and walked towards the door.  Suddenly he saw it all.  He saw the room and the garden, and the trees moving in the air, they could go on without her; she could die.  For the first time since she fell ill he remembered exactly what she looked like and the way in which they cared for each other.  The immense happiness of feeling her close to him mingled with a more intense anxiety than he had felt yet.  He could not let her die; he could not live without her.  But after a momentary struggle, the curtain fell again, and he saw nothing and felt nothing clearly.  It was all going on—­going on still, in the same way as before.  Save for a physical pain when his heart beat, and the fact that his fingers were icy cold, he did not realise that he was anxious about anything.  Within his mind he seemed to feel nothing about Rachel or about any one or anything in the world.  He went on giving orders, arranging with Mrs. Chailey, writing out lists, and every now and then he went upstairs and put something quietly on the table outside Rachel’s door.  That night Dr. Lesage seemed to be less sulky than usual.  He stayed voluntarily for a few moments, and, addressing St. John and Terence equally, as if he did not remember which of them was engaged to the young lady, said, “I consider that her condition to-night is very grave.”

Neither of them went to bed or suggested that the other should go to bed.  They sat in the drawing-room playing picquet with the door open.  St. John made up a bed upon the sofa, and when it was ready insisted that Terence should lie upon it.  They began to quarrel as to who should lie on the sofa and who should lie upon a couple of chairs covered with rugs.  St. John forced Terence at last to lie down upon the sofa.

“Don’t be a fool, Terence,” he said.  “You’ll only get ill if you don’t sleep.”

“Old fellow,” he began, as Terence still refused, and stopped abruptly, fearing sentimentality; he found that he was on the verge of tears.

He began to say what he had long been wanting to say, that he was sorry for Terence, that he cared for him, that he cared for Rachel.  Did she know how much he cared for her—­had she said anything, asked perhaps?  He was very anxious to say this, but he refrained, thinking that it was a selfish question after all, and what was the use of bothering Terence to talk about such things?  He was already half asleep.  But St. John could not sleep at once.  If only, he thought to himself, as he lay in the darkness, something would happen—­if only this strain would come to an end.  He did not mind what happened, so long as the succession of these hard and dreary days was broken; he did not mind if she died.  He felt himself disloyal in not minding it, but it seemed to him that he had no feelings left.