"There's my wife, ma'am, who is used to nursing; and, if my master is worse, a trained nurse can be sent for. I thought you would like to know, ma'am. I've been talking to the landlady, and she's quite agreeable for my wife to come on for a bit and help to wait on Mr. Lepel. She's there now."
"I am very much obliged to you for coming, Jenkins."
"I thought, ma'am," continued Jenkins, "that, if ever you was passing that way, you might like to look in maybe to ask after Mr. Lepel, you know. If you was good enough always to ask for my wife, you see, ma'am, she could tell you how my master was, or any news about him."
Cynthia grasped the situation at once, and felt her face flush as she listened to the man's awkward kindly words. Evidently Jenkins knew that she was unacquainted with Mr. Lepel's family, and was trying to save her from the unpleasantness of meeting any of them unexpectedly. The thought gave her a moment's bitter humiliation; then she saw the kindliness of the motive and felt a throb of gratitude.
"It is very good of you to tell me that, Jenkins," she said, frankly putting out her hand to him, "and I am very much obliged to you. I shall come to-morrow; it is impossible for me to come to-night."
Jenkins was not accustomed to have his hand shaken by those whom he served, and Cynthia's action embarrassed him considerably. He was glad when she went on to ask a question.
"Do you think that Mr. Lepel is very—very ill?" There was a pathetic tremor in her voice.
"Well, ma'am, he don't know nothing; he lies there and talks to himself—that's all."
"He is unconscious! Oh!" cried Cynthia, as if the words had given her a stab of pain. "Does he talk about any one—anything?" she asked wistfully.
"We can't tell much of what he says, ma'am. But I think he was mainly anxious to see you. He kep' on sending messages to you; and that's partly why I come round this evening."