“Is he better?  May I go to his room?” she panted.

Yes, the earl was better—­better, in so far as that he was quiet and senseless.  She moved hastily toward his chamber.  Mr. Carlyle drew the housekeeper aside.

“Is there any hope?”

“Not the slightest, sir.  He is dying.”

The earl knew no one; pain was gone for the present, and he lay on his bed, calm; but his face, which had death in it all too plainly, startled Isabel.  She did not scream or cry; she was perfectly quiet, save that she had a fit of shivering.

“Will he soon be better?” she whispered to Mr. Wainwright, who stood there.

The surgeon coughed.  “Well, he—­he—­we must hope it, my lady.”

“But why does his face look like that?  It is pale—­gray; I never saw anybody else look so.”

“He has been in great pain, my lady, and pain leaves its traces on the countenance.”

Mr. Carlyle, who had come, and was standing by the surgeon, touched his arm to draw him from the room.  He noticed the look on the earl’s face, and did not like it; he wished to question the surgeon.  Lady Isabel saw that Mr. Carlyle was about to quit the room, and beckoned to him.

“Do not leave the house, Mr. Carlyle.  When he wakes up, it may cheer him to see you here; he liked you very much.”

“I will not leave it, Lady Isabel.  I did not think of doing so.”

In time—­it seemed an age—­the medical men arrived from Lynneborough—­three of them—­the groom had thought he could not summon too many.  It was a strange scene they entered upon:  the ghastly peer, growing restless again now, battling with his departing spirit, and the gala robes, the sparkling gems adorning the young girl watching at his side.  They comprehended the case without difficulty; that she had been suddenly called from some scene of gayety.

They stooped to look at the earl, and felt his pulse, and touched his heart, and exchanged a few murmured words with Mr. Wainwright.  Isabel had stood back to give them place, but her anxious eyes followed their every movement.  They did not seem to notice her, and she stepped forward.

“Can you do anything for him?  Will he recover?”

They all turned at the address, and looked at her.  One spoke; it was an evasive answer.

“Tell me the truth!” she implored, with feverish impatience:  “you must not trifle with me.  Do you not know me?  I am his only child, and I am here alone.”

The first thing was to get her away from the room, for the great change was approaching, and the parting struggle between the body and the spirit might be one of warfare—­no sight for her.  But in answer to their suggestion that she should go, she only leaned her head upon the pillow by her father and moaned in despair.

“She must be got out of the room,” cried one of the physicians, almost angrily.  “Ma’am,” turning suddenly upon Mrs. Mason, “are there no reserves in the house—­no one who can exert influence over the young lady?”