“Well,” said Dr. May, after a pause, “I hoped none of us knew the exact spot.”
“We don’t; he never told us, but he was there.”
“Was he?” exclaimed her father; “I had no notion of that. How came he there?”
“He went on with Mr. Ernescliffe, and saw it all,” said Ethel, as her father drew out her words, apparently with his eye; “and then came up to my room so faint that he was obliged to lie on the floor ever so long.”
“Faint—how long did it last?” said her father, examining her without apparent emotion, as if it had been an indifferent patient.
“I don’t know, things seemed so long that evening. Till after dark at least, and it came on in the morning—no, the Monday. I believe it was your arm—for talking of going to see you always brought it on, till Mr. Ward gave him a dose of brandy-and-water, and that stopped it.”
“I wish I had known this before. Derangement of the nervous system, no doubt—a susceptible boy like that—I wonder what sort of nights he has been having.”
“Terrible ones,” said Ethel; “I don’t think he ever sleeps quietly till morning; he has dreams, and he groans and talks in his sleep; Harry can tell you all that.”
“Bless me!” cried Dr. May, in some anger; “what have you all been thinking about to keep this to yourselves all this time?”
“He could not bear to have it mentioned,” said Ethel timidly; “and I didn’t know that it signified so much; does it?”