some accident of the kind that donkeys who nod over their drowsy nose-length-ahead precautions call fatality, should rouse her to suspect, and in a turn of the hand undo his labour:  for the race was getting terrible:  Death had not yet stepped out of that evil chamber in Dr. Shrapnel’s cottage to aim his javelin at the bosom containing the prized young life to come, but, like the smoke of waxing fire, he shadowed forth his presence in wreaths blacker and thicker day by day:  and Everard Romfrey knew that the hideous beast of darkness had only to spring up and pass his guard to deal a blow to his House the direr from all he supposed himself to have gained by masking it hitherto.  The young life he looked to for renewal swallowed him:  he partly lost human feeling for his wife in the tremendous watch and strain to hurry her as a vessel round the dangerous headland.  He was oblivious that his eyebrows talked, that his head was bent low, that his mouth was shut, and that where a doubt had been sown, silence and such signs are like revelations in black night to the spirit of a woman who loves.

One morning after breakfast Rosamund hung on his arm, eyeing him neither questioningly nor invitingly, but long.  He kissed her forehead.  She clung to him and closed her eyes, showing him a face of slumber, like a mask of the dead.

Mrs. Devereux was present.  Cecilia had entreated her to stay with Lady Romfrey.  She stole away, for the time had come which any close observer of the countess must have expected.

The earl lifted his wife, and carried her to her sitting-room.  A sunless weltering September day whipped the window-panes and brought the roar of the beaten woods to her ears.  He was booted and gaitered for his customary walk to the park lodge, and as he bent a knee beside her, she murmured:  ‘Don’t wait; return soon.’

He placed a cord attached to the bellrope within her reach.  This utter love of Nevil Beauchamp was beyond his comprehension, but there it was, and he had to submit to it and manoeuvre.  His letters and telegrams told the daily tale.  ‘He’s better,’ said the earl, preparing himself to answer what his wife’s look had warned him would come.

She was an image of peace, in the same posture on the couch where he had left her, when he returned.  She did not open her eyes, but felt about for his hand, and touching it, she seemed to weigh the fingers.

At last she said:  ‘The fever should be at its height.’

‘Why, my dear brave girl, what ails you?’ said he.

‘Ignorance.’

She raised her eyelids.  His head was bent down over her, like a raven’s watching, a picture of gravest vigilance.

Her bosom rose and sank.  ‘What has Miss Denham written to-day?’

‘To-day?’ he asked her gently.

‘I shall bear it,’ she answered.  ’You were my master before you were my husband.  I bear anything you think is good for my government.  Only, my ignorance is fever; I share Nevil’s.’