“In the drawing-room.”
Norman paused to ask what he was to say.
“Nothing,” said Mary, “nobody can do anything. Make haste. Don’t you want a candle?”
“No, thank you, I had rather be in the dark. Come up as soon as you have seen him,” said Etheldred.
Norman went slowly down, with failing knees, hardly able to conquer the shudder that came over him, as he passed those rooms. There were voices in the drawing-room, and he found a sort of council there, Alan Ernescliffe, the surgeon, and Mr. Wilmot. They turned as he came in, and Mr. Wilmot held out his hand with a look of affection and kindness that went to his heart, making room for him on the sofa, while going on with what he was saying. “Then you think it would be better for me not to sit up with him.”
“I should decidedly say so,” replied Mr. Ward. “He has recognised Mr. Ernescliffe, and any change might excite him, and lead him to ask questions. The moment of his full consciousness is especially to be dreaded.”
“But you do not call him insensible?”
“No, but he seems stunned—stupified by the shock, and by pain. He spoke to Miss Flora when she brought him some tea.”
“And admirably she managed,” said Alan Ernescliffe. “I was much afraid of some answer that would rouse him, but she kept her self-possession beautifully, and seemed to compose him in a moment.”
“She is valuable indeed—so much judgment and activity,” said Mr. Ward. “I don’t know what we should have done without her. But we ought to have Mr. Richard—has no one sent to him?”