He held out his hand, with his restless, bloodshot eyes fixed on the squire’s boots, and as the old man took it, he noticed, in a dull way, how cold and clammy it felt.
The door closed on Mr. Bartley Bradstone and his protector, and the squire went upstairs again.
As he approached the door, he could hear his darling’s voice talking wildly and incoherently, and the doctor met him with a grave face.
“She is delirious,” he said, gravely. “Has Mr. Bradstone gone?”
They entered the room. Olivia was lying in Bessie’s arms, her eyes open and staring, a torrent of words streaming from her feverish lips.
“Bessie! Bessie! Save him! He is not guilty! My love commit—murder! Ha, ha!” and her wild laughter rang through the room. “He’s so good and gentle! They are mad, mad, mad! Take me to him, father! Take me to him! It is my place! I tell you that if all the world pronounced him guilty, I would love—love—love him! He is innocent! Father, don’t let him take me away! No! Let me stay! Hide me from him! I hate him! I hate him!”
“What does it mean?” moaned the squire, piteously.
“It means just nothing,” replied the doctor, who had watched beside many a delirious patient, and was as discreet and silent as the grave. “Pay no attention. Who’s that?”
It was Aunt Amelia’s voice at the door, begging to be admitted.
“Miss Amelia can do no good. Keep her away, please,” he said, quietly; and the squire persuaded her, weeping bitterly—for Aunt Amelia’s heart was sound, though her head was flighty—to go back to her own room.