The next day there was no change in Mr. Lord’s condition; a deep silence possessed the house.  In the afternoon Nancy went to pass an hour with Jessica Morgan; on her return she met Samuel Barmby, who was just leaving after a visit to the sick man.  Samuel bore himself with portentous gravity, but spoke only a few commonplaces, affecting hope; he bestowed upon Nancy’s hand a fervent pressure, and strode away with the air of an undertaker who had called on business.

Two more days of deepening gloom, then a night through which Nancy sat with Mary Woodruff by her father’s bed.  Mr. Lord was unconscious, but from time to time a syllable or a phrase fell from his lips, meaningless to the watchers.  At dawn, Nancy went to her chamber, pallid, exhausted.  Mary, whose strength seemed proof against fatigue, moved about the room, preparing for a new day; every few minutes she stood with eyes fixed on the dying face, and the tears she had restrained in Nancy’s presence flowed silently.

When the sun made a golden glimmer upon the wall, Mary withdrew, and was absent for a quarter of an hour.  On returning, she bent at once over the bed; her eyes were met by a grave, wondering look.

‘Do you know me?’ she whispered.

The lips moved; she bent lower, but could distinguish no word.  He was speaking; the murmur continued; but she gathered no sense.

‘You can trust me, I will do all I can.’

He seemed to understand her, and smiled.  As the smile faded away, passing into an austere calm, Mary pressed her lips upon his forehead.

CHAPTER 5

After breakfast, and before Arthur Peachey’s departure for business, there had been a scene of violent quarrel between him and his wife.  It took place in the bed-room, where, as usual save on Sunday morning, Ada consumed her strong tea and heavily buttered toast; the state of her health—­she had frequent ailments, more or less genuine, such as afflict the indolent and brainless type of woman—­ made it necessary for her to repose till a late hour.  Peachey did not often lose self-control, though sorely tried; the one occasion that unchained his wrath was when Ada’s heedlessness or ill-temper affected the well-being of his child.  This morning it had been announced to him that the nurse-girl, Emma, could no longer be tolerated; she was making herself offensive to her mistress, had spoken insolently, disobeyed orders, and worst of all, defended herself by alleging orders from Mr. Peachey.  Hence the outbreak of strife, signalled by furious shrill voices, audible to Beatrice and Fanny as they sat in the room beneath.

Ada came down at half-past ten, and found Beatrice writing letters.  She announced what any who did not know her would have taken for a final resolve.

’I’m going—­I won’t put up with that beast any longer.  I shall go and live at Brighton.’

Her sister paid not the slightest heed; she was intent upon a business letter of much moment.