Читать книгу A Son of Ishmael. A Novel онлайн

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“Please go upstairs, Miss Follett?”

Nancy started and her face turned pale.

“Yes, nurse, what is the matter?” she cried.

“Dr. Follett is awake and wishes to speak to you,” said the nurse.

“Awake! then perhaps he is better!” said Nancy.

“No, miss, he will never be that, but he is conscious and he wants you without a moment’s delay. He asked me to leave you with him, so I am going to the kitchen to try and have a bit of supper. He is pretty sure to go off towards morning; there is little chance of this gleam of consciousness lasting long.”

“I will go to him at once,” said Nancy.

She cast one longing glance at the blazing fire, then turning, left the room. She ran up the rambling old stairs; they were faintly lit at intervals by the struggling light of a watery moon. She reached the gallery which ran round the hall, paused before a creaking, badly hung door, and opening it, found herself in a lofty bedroom. The room was almost bare of furniture. A strip of carpet stood by the bedside, another was placed in front of the old fire-grate. With these two exceptions, the floor was bare. A deal table stood in one of the windows, on which a small looking-glass was placed, a chest of drawers of the commonest and coarsest make occupied a position beside one of the walls; there were a couple of chairs, a very old-fashioned washstand, a huge four-post bedstead made of black mahogany and hung with old velvet curtains—that was all.