"Yes, doctor, I'm better, and you needn't come again."
"Yes, you're better, Moredock. Seen any more ghosts?"
"Nay; I never see no ghosts. I only see what I did see; but how's young
miss up yonder?"
Horace North's brow wrinkled, and his voice sounded stern.
"Ill, Moredock--seriously ill. Violent fever."
"Fever--fever!" said the old man, backing away with unwonted excitement.
"Yes, fever, you selfish old rascal!" cried the doctor irascibly. "You
oughtn't to be afraid of catching a fever at your time of life."
"But I am, doctor--I am," said the old man, with a peculiar change in
his voice. "You see, I've just been ill, and it would be very hard to
be ill again. Is--is it ketching?"
"No!" roared the doctor angrily; "not at all. There, take care of
yourself, and don't go to the church again in the dark."
"I shall go to the church as often as I like and when I like," grumbled
the old man. "It's my church; but, I say, doctor, is it likely to be--
eh?--you know--job for me?"
North looked at him with an expression of horror and loathing that made
the old man stare.
"Why, you hideous old ghoul!" he cried; "do you want me to strangle you?
Ugh!"
He hurried out of the cottage, and Moredock rose slowly and followed him
as far as the door.
"What's he mean by that? Gool? What's a gool? He's been drinking. I
see his hand shake; that's what's the matter with him; and I'm glad he
hasn't got to mix no physic for me this morning. Now, I wonder what he
takes. Them doctors goes into their sudgeries, and mixes theirselves
drops as makes 'em on direckly. Old Borton used to, and I buried him.
He's making a bad job of it up at the Rectory, and he's drinking, but I
put him out by speaking of it. Ay, there he goes in at the Rect'ry
gate. Wonder whether they'll have a tomb for her, or a plain grave."
Leo Salis had looked for some hours past as if one or the other would be
necessary, and Moredock's words had seemed to North as if each bore a
sting.
So bad was the patient that when he reached the Rectory that day he
decided to stay.
"I'd say, send for other advice directly, Salis," he said drearily; "but
if you had the heads of the profession here, they could do nothing but
wait. The fever will run its course. We can do nothing but watch."
"And pray," said Salis sternly.
"And pray," said the doctor, repeating his words. "Will you send over
to the town, and telegraph?"
"No," replied the curate. "I have confidence in you, North."
He said no more, but turned into his study to hide his emotion, while
North crossed to where poor helpless Mary lay back in her chair, looking
white and ten years older as her eyes sought his, dumbly asking for
comfort.
He took her hand, and kissed it, retaining it in his for a few minutes,
as he stood talking to her, trying to instil hope, and little thinking
of the agony he caused.
"I'll go to her now," he said. "There, try and be hopeful and help me
to cheer up poor Hartley. He wants comfort badly. I'll come and tell
you myself if there is any change."
"The truth," said Mary faintly.
"The truth? Yes: to you," he said meaningly; and his words seemed to
convey that she was so old in suffering that she could bear to be told
anything, though perhaps it might be withheld from her brother.
Mrs Milt, who had been an untiring watcher by the sick-bed, made her
report--one that she had had to repeat again and again--of restless
mutterings and delirium: otherwise no change.
"No, Mrs Milt, we have not reached the climax yet," said North,
sighing.
"There, go and lie down, my good soul," he added after a short
examination; "you must be tired out."
"Tired, but not tired out, sir," said the old lady. "Poor child! she
has something on her mind, too, which frets her."
"Indeed!" said North. "Yes," continued Mrs Milt, in a whisper. "She
keeps muttering about telling _him_ something--confessing, she calls it
sometimes."
"Some old trouble come up into her brain," said the doctor; and he sat
down by the bedside, to gaze at Leo's flushed face as she lay there with
her eyes half closed, apparently sleeping heavily now.
"Not yet, not yet," sighed North, as he took the hot, dry hand in his,
and a shiver ran through him as he thought of the old sexton's words,
and wondered whether he would be able to save her--so young and
beautiful--from so sad a fate.
"Poor child!" he said, half aloud; and then he sat on, hour after hour,
wondering whether it would be possible to do more; whether he had done
everything that medical skill could devise; and finally, as he came to
the conclusion that he had thoroughly done his duty by his patient, his
heart sank, and he owned to himself that in some instances he and the
rest of the disciples of the great profession were singularly impotent,
and merely attendants on Nature's will.
Salis came up from time to time, to enter the room softly, and mutely
interrogate his friend, and then go sadly back to his study--where Mary
sat with him--to give her such news as he had to bear, and join with her
in watching and praying for the wilful sister they both so dearly loved.
It was getting towards nine o'clock on the gloomy, stormy winter's night
when, after softly replenishing the fire, as North was returning to his
place by the bed, he heard a faint sigh, and bending down over his
patient, he found that her eyes were wide open--not in a fixed,
delirious stare, full of excitement, but calm and subdued, while a sweet
smile passed into her expression as his face neared hers.
"Is that dreadful old woman there?" she whispered.
"No," he said, laying his hand upon her forehead. "I am alone."
"Then I will speak," she said, in a low, passionate voice. "You have
not known--you have not believed it possible--but tell me, I have been
very ill?"
"Yes," he said gently, "you have been ill; but don't talk--try and
rest."
"I have been very ill, and I may die, and then you would never know,"
she whispered quickly. "It is no time, then, for a foolish, girlish
reserve. I may have been light and frivolous--coquettish too--but
beneath it all I have loved you, and you alone. I do love you with all
my heart."
Two soft, white arms were thrown about Horace North's neck, to draw him
closer to his patient's gently heaving breast.