She goes into the passage
for the candle, and meets Owen. She signs him to silence, and her pale
face frightens him. He goes with her into Netta's room. Shading the
candle with her hand, she again stoops over Netta, so does Owen.
Very calm, very pale, and most lovely is the face on which they gaze
with an eager, throbbing anxiety. Gladys presses her hand on Owen's arm,
as she puts the candle near that placid face. He, too, puts his ear
close to the half-open mouth, touches the hand that lies on the white
counterpane, feels for the pulse, so quick but yesterday. He is about to
utter the fear that oppresses him, but Gladys points to his mother,
still heavily sleeping.
'Perhaps it is a swoon,' she whispers, and goes for the draught ready
for such an attack. The light of the candle awakes Mrs Prothero, and she
is out of bed in a moment.
'Netta has fainted, mother; she has one of her spasms,' says Owen,
turning his pale face to his mother.
'My God, it is death!' cries the stricken mother, falling on her knees
by the bedside of her child.
And it is death. Without a groan the spirit has quitted its dwelling of
clay to enter upon its eternal rest!
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE RECTOR.
Life and death! What are they? A soul in chains, and a soul set free.
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