Lionel drew George into the quaint old dining-hall. “I am very uneasy about our dear friend,” he said, in agitated accents. “I fear that I have had too little consideration for his years and his sensitive nature, and that, what with the excitement of the conversation that passed between us and the fatigue of the journey, his nerves have broken down. We were not half-way on the road, and as we had the railway-carriage to ourselves, I was talking to him with imprudent earnestness, when he began to tremble all over, and went into an hysterical paroxysm of mingled tears and laughter. I wished to stop at the next station, but he was not long recovering, and insisted on coming on. Still, as we approached Fawley, after muttering to himself, as far as I could catch his words, incoherently, he sank into a heavy state of lethargy or stupor, resting his head on my shoulder. It was with difficulty I roused him when he entered the park.”
“Poor old man,” said George feelingly; “no doubt the quick succession of emotions through which he has lately passed has overcome him for the time. But the worst is now passed. His interview with Darrell must cheer his heart and soothe his spirits; and that interview over, we must give him all repose and nursing. But tell me what passed between you—if he was very indignant that I could not suffer men like you and my uncle Alban and Guy Darrell to believe him a picklock and a thief.”
Lionel began his narrative, but had not proceeded far in it before Darrell’s voice was heard shouting loud, and the library bell rang violently.
They hurried into the library, and Lionel’s fears were verified. Waife was in strong convulsions; and as these gradually ceased, and he rested without struggle, half on the floor, half in Darrell’s arms, he was evidently unconscious of all around him. His eye was open, but fixed in a glassy stare. The servants thronged into the room; one was despatched instantly to summon the nearest medical practitioner. “Help me—George—Lionel,” said Darrell, “to bear him up-stairs. Mills, light us.” When they reached the landing-place, Mills asked, “Which room, sir?” Darrell hesitated an instant, then his grey eye lit into its dark fire. “My father’s room—he shall rest on my father’s bed.”
When the surgeon arrived, he declared Waife to be in imminent danger—pressure on the brain. He prescribed prompt and vigorous remedies, which had indeed before the surgeon’s arrival suggested themselves to, and been partly commenced by, Darrell, who had gone through too many varieties of experience to be unversed in the rudiments of leechcraft. “If I were in my guest’s state,” asked Darrell of the practitioner, “what would you do?”
“Telegraph instantly for Dr. F———.”
“Lionel—you hear? Take my own horse—he will carry you like the wind. Off to ————; it is the nearest telegraph station.”
Darrell did not stir from Waife’s bedside all that anxious eight. Dr. F——— arrived at morning. He approved of all that had been done, but nevertheless altered the treatment; and after staying some hours, said to Darrell: “I am compelled to leave you for the present, nor could I be of use in staying. I have given all the aid in my power to Nature—we must leave the rest to Nature herself. That fever—those fierce throes and spasms—are but Nature’s efforts to cast off the grasp of the enemy we do not see. It now depends on what degree of rallying power be left to the patient. Fortunately his frame is robust, yet not plethoric. Do you know his habits?”
“I know,” answered George—“most temperate, most innocent.”
“Then, with constant care, minute attention to my directions, he may recover.”