Mr. Bindon did make his way in, and stood dismayed at the black mass on the floor. Rosamond and Rollo, one on each side of Herbert’s great figure, in his cassock, and the rosy face deadly white, while Mungo and Tartar, who hated Mr. Bindon, both began to bark, and thus did the most for their master, whose call of ‘Quiet! you brutes,’ seemed to give him sudden strength. He took a grip of Rollo’s curly back, and, supported by Mr. Bindon, dragged himself to the sofa and fell heavily back on it.
“Give him some brandy,” said Mr. Bindon, hastily.
“There’s not a drop of anything,” muttered Herbert; “it’s all gone—”
“To Wil’sbro’,” explained Rosamond; then seeing the scared face of Dilemma at the door, she hastily gave a message, and sent her flying to the Rectory, while Mr. Bindon was explaining.
“I wish I had known. I never will go out of the reach of letters again. I saw in the Times, at Innspruck, a mention of typhoid fever here, and I came back as fast as trains would bring me; but too late, I fear.”
“You are welcome, indeed,” repeated Rosamond. “Herbert has broken down at last, after doing more than man could do, and I am most thankful that my husband should be saved the funerals at Wil’sbro’.”
Mr. Bindon, whose face showed how shocked he was, made a few inquiries. He had learnt the main facts on his way, but had been seeking his junior to hear the details, and he looked, like the warrior who had missed Thermopylæ, ashamed and grieved at his holiday.
The bottle Rosamond had sent for arrived, and there was enough vigour restored to make her say, “Here’s a first service, Mr. Bindon, to help this poor fellow into bed.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Herbert.
“You are not going to say there’s nothing the matter with you?” said Rosamond, as a flush passed over the pale face.