It was not
so with Magdalen. Tearless and speechless, she sat in the room where
the revelation of her father's death had first reached her; her face,
unnaturally petrified by the sterile sorrow of old age--a white,
changeless blank, fearful to look at. Nothing roused, nothing melted
her. She only said, "Don't speak to me; don't touch me. Let me bear
it by myself"--and fell silent again. The first great grief which had
darkened the sisters' lives had, as it seemed, changed their everyday
characters already.
The twilight fell, and faded; and the summer night came brightly. As
the first carefully shaded light was kindled in the sick-room, the
physician, who had been summoned from Bristol, arrived to consult with
the medical attendant of the family. He could give no comfort: he could
only say, "We must try, and hope. The shock which struck her, when she
overheard the news of her husband's death, has prostrated her strength
at the time when she needed it most. No effort to preserve her shall be
neglected. I will stay here for the night."
He opened one of the windows to admit more air as he spoke. The view
overlooked the drive in front of the house and the road outside.
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