As the truth slowly won over him, he straightened himself, one hand still clasping Helen's cold one.
"It's sudden; sudden," he said. "Doctor, w'at ailed my little Nelly?"
Still numbly inquisitive, I waited. The old man couldn't see the truth, the horrible truth. What would the doctor say?
It was Cadge's voice that broke the silence; gentle, assured, yet with a note almost of defiance.
"We think--in fact, Helen overstudied," she said. "We've been much worried about her."
Dr. Upton turned abruptly. Cadge's irregular, mobile face for once was still, its quiet demand bent full upon him. His answering look refused her, but the effort was obvious with which he spoke to the broken man waiting his verdict.
"Miss Winship--your daughter--" he began.
The words died. Cadge's steady black eyes controlled him.
The doctor bowed his head over Helen. I was listening again to her watch that ticked insistently. "Don't tell Father! Don't tell Father!" it said over and over, over and over, louder and louder, until the words echoed from every corner of the room.
They must hear! That was why she had left it!
"Cardiac asthenia--heart failure," said Dr. Upton, abruptly.
Kitty threw herself upon Cadge, kissing her convulsively, while Mr. Winship persisted:--
"Sis was first-rate yist'day; w'at fetched the attack on?"
As gently as Cadge herself, Dr. Upton answered:--
"Mr. Winship, your daughter wasn't so strong as she seemed. There was much in her condition to cause anxiety. I'll be back in an hour," he added, moving hastily, as Reid entered, toward the door.
Could I let him shoulder the responsibility of concealment? And if I refused? Publicity--an inquest? At last I was alive to the situation; in silent gratitude I wrung Upton's hand, but he took no notice of me. As he passed Reid he growled:--
"Your wife's a good woman to tie to, Pros. She's all right. Lucky she was telegraphed for."
Cadge had begun to talk in low tones to Mr. Winship. He did not seem to listen, but the quiet voice soothed him. Gradually his gray, set features relaxed, though he would not submit to be led from the bedside.
"Ma was right," he said at last, broken and querulous. "We'd never ought to have let her come to the city. Ye say she'll be famous? Sissy, my poor little Poppet, w'at good to ye is fame; w'at good is all your studyin'?"