“Take them all away, and send the nurses,” said Hugh, peremptorily.
Mr. Pym and his son instantly retired, but Lilia pleaded to remain.
“Have mercy on me, and let me stay!” she said, turning from Mr. Mervyn to Hugh with a piteous expression in her distended eyes.
“You shall stay,” said Hugh, tenderly; “only wait just a minute. Nurse!”
Mr. Mervyn took her to the window, and said all he could think of to comfort her. He, like Hugh, sorry though he was, felt almost thankful to Death for putting an end to the embarrassing position. But all he could think of saying was nothing to the poor child in her agony, he saw that.
When the nurses had arranged the now unconscious man, under Hugh’s direction, Hugh came across to the window.
“Coma has set in,” he said to them; “all pain and suffering are over for him. But as this state remains somewhat of a mystery to us doctors—I myself believe there may sometimes remain a super-conscious state we know nothing about—will you come quite close to him, Lilia? Hold his hand; let your head rest by him. We never know, it might comfort him!”
Lilia put out her hand, and, guided by him, reached the bed. Presently the dying father and the living child were lying side by side, as motionless as if both were dead. The nurses sat near, watching and waiting. Mr. Mervyn and Hugh sat silently at the window, with plenty to occupy their thoughts. The minutes were slowly ticked off by the old clock outside the sick-room door, which presently, after some wheezing sounds, struck one, hoarsely, in a cracked, aged tone.
One of the nurses rose with a warning “Mr. Paull.”
Hugh knew then what was before him. He went to the bedside, gently roused Lilia, who seemed half-asleep, half-stupefied. Then followed the feeling of the dead man’s pulse, the listening to the silent heart, the mirror held over the blue lips—all in vain.