Margery Daw by Bertha M. Clay — Read

The clock on the mantelpiece struck eight in clear, silvery chimes; Margery paused in her walk to and fro in the boudoir, and looked at it. Three hours since they had returned, and carried Enid's poor, fragile form to the bedroom, her face as white as death itself. The agony of Margery's suspense was unbearable; she had been alone, listening for, yet, she scarcely knew why, dreading to hear Dr. Fothergill's step on the stair. All thought of self was banished now; she could think only of the sweet angel-woman who had been a spirit of goodness to her, and of the look of speechless grief on the earl's face as he carried his sister into the house. Downstairs, in another room, a man was sitting, with head bent forward as with age. It was the Earl of Court. He had returned from his sister's couch, after placing her there, and, dropping into the chair beside the fire, had never moved during the three weary hours that passed. He heard the doctor slowly descend the stairs; yet he, like Margery, dared not approach him because of the unspeakable dread that was in his heart, and he heard the street door close with a slight shudder at the fears that possessed him.

It was not till the door was gently opened that he roused himself from his trance of despair; then, raising his head, he saw Margery, pale and agitated, standing before him.