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.
Chapter Nineteen.
Was it Delirium?
“Leo, my child, think what you are saying,” cried North.
“I do think. I have lain here and thought for hours. I am not ashamed to confess it. Why should I be?”
She looked up at him inquiringly; while he for the moment felt giddy with emotion, but recovered himself directly.
“She is delirious, poor child,” he said to himself; and he tried to remove the enlacing arms from his neck.
“No, no; don’t leave me,” she said softly. “Don’t be angry with me for saying this.”
“I am not angry, but you are weak. You have been very ill, and you must not be excited now.”
“No, I am not excited. I only feel happy – so happy. You are not angry?”
“Angry? No,” he said tenderly. “There, let me lay you back upon your pillow. Try and sleep.”
“No. I do not wish to sleep. Only tell me once again that you are not cross, and then sit down by me, and let me hold your hand.”
“Poor girl!” muttered North, as he felt the hands which had clasped his neck steal down his arm softly and lingeringly, as if they delighted in its strength and muscularity, resting for a few moments upon his wrist, and then grasping his hand tightly, while their owner uttered a low sigh of satisfaction.
He seated himself by the bedside, and Leo said softly, as she lay gazing into his eyes:
“I
