“Don’t think anything of it, dear Miss Olivia. It will all come right. You and I—everybody knows he didn’t do it—couldn’t do it.”
“Couldn’t? Ah!” Her hand clutched Bessie’s arm, and she stared at her wildly. “They say he had committed murder! I heard them! I heard them! They have taken him away, Bessie. Bessie, I must go. No”—and she moaned—“I cannot. But you must go and tell him that I know—do you hear?—I know he is innocent. That if any harm comes to him I—shall die!”
She sank back breathless and exhausted. The squire’s face went white, and he turned his head away.
“She is wandering, poor girl,” said the doctor, with prompt presence of mind. “The shock of—of this terrible business coming so closely upon the excitement of the day has prostrated her. There has been a strain upon her mind for some time past. Don’t attach any value to her wild words, sir.”
The squire drew back into the shadow and groaned:
“My poor girl!”
The doctor went round and, taking his arm, led him outside into the corridor.
“Come, squire,” he said, gently but firmly, “you mustn’t give way; our only chance is to keep her free from excitement. If I can only keep her quiet she will be safe. If not—the first thing to do is to get rid of Mr. Bradstone.”
“Get rid of him?” groaned the squire.
“Yes,” he said; “his presence here in the house affects her; there is no accounting for the fancies of fever. Tell him how ill she is, and persuade him to go home, so that I may tell her he has gone. Leave the rest to me. I can manage very well with Bessie for nurse; and no one else must enter the room. You understand?”