“Lionel Wentworth Trafford. I took it from his dressing-case when I prescribed for him.”
Lucy had been leaning on her arm as she spoke, but she now sank slowly backward and fainted.
It was a long time before consciousness came back, and even then she lay voiceless and motionless, and, though she heard what Beattie said to her, unable to speak to him, or intimate by a gesture that she heard him.
The doctor needed no confidences,—he read the whole story. There are expressions in the human face which have no reference to physical ills; nor are there any indications of bodily suffering. He who asked, “Canst thou minister to a mind diseased?” knew how hopeless was his question; and this very despair it is—this sense of an affliction beyond the reach of art—gives a character to the expression which the doctor's eye never fails to discriminate from the look worn by mere malady.
As she lay there motionless, her large eyes looking at him with that expression in which eagerness struggles against debility, he saw how he had become her confidant.
“Come, my dear child,” said he, taking her hand between both his own, “you have no occasion for fears on this score,—so far I assure you on my honor.”
She gave his hand a slight, a very slight pressure, and tried to say something, but could not. “I will go down now, and see what is to be done about your brother.” She nodded, and he continued: “I will pay you another visit to-morrow early, before I leave town, and let me find you strong and hearty; and remember that though I force no confidences, Lucy, I will not refuse them if you offer.”
“I have none, sir,—none,” said she, in a voice of deep melancholy.
“So that I know all that is to be known?” asked he.
“All, sir,” said she, with a trembling lip.