As soon as Ralph was safely in bed Janie was despatched for a doctor. His appearance alarmed Phebe more than ever. The cough was incessant, and occasionally thin streaks of blood were seen on the handkerchief.
"I wish you'd get me a red handkerchief," he said, in an irritable voice.
"A red handkerchief! Why? I haven't got one."
"Yes, a red handkerchief. And if you don't possess such a thing, you could get one, couldn't you? I shouldn't see that blood if I had a red handkerchief."
"I did not know exactly what you meant. I'll get you one at once out of the shop." It was the same old Ralph, always wanting to cover up trouble, never able to fairly and boldly face consequences.
The doctor pronounced him in a dangerous condition, promised to send something at once to ease the cough, and in the morning would examine him more thoroughly. "But I am afraid he is not long for this world, Mrs. Waring," he said, as he bade her good-night; "he has had a very hard life lately, that is very evident."
Yes, she saw it all; Ralph had come back with a wrecked life—had come home to die!—the man who had gone forth to win a fortune to lay at her feet. How bitterly disappointed he must be! This thought gave an added tenderness to her voice, and made her still more patient. All the night long she watched by his side. Sometimes he slept a little, but when awake lay gloomily staring at the wall. He never uttered a word of tenderness or pleasure at being home. Only once did he refer to the past, and then it was to rip open the old wound.
"You've been very successful, Phebe."
"Yes; God has greatly helped me."
"No doubt; but still it was I who started you. I left you a good business, and in addition"—he had to pause to cough—"and in addition I had trained you well, so, after all, the success is mine as much as yours."