“No; much better not. He does not know what he is saying, but he keeps on saying what you have heard. Now, will you send somebody for the doctor? There are certain things I don’t like about his looks. And then come back, dear, if you like. He never says a word his sister should not hear.”
Helen advanced to the side of the bed a moment, and just touched Martin’s hand, which lay outside the bedclothes. She could not speak, but just nodded to the nurse and went away.
She sent word to the stables that the cart was to go at once to fetch Dr. Thaxter, and then went to her father’s study, where he was waiting for her.
He was kneeling by his table, as he had knelt for the last half-hour, but rose when she entered, and they stood together, hands clasped, a moment.
“No, dear father, he is no better,” she said. “He—he is very ill, indeed. And Nurse Baker thinks you had better not go in.”
Mr. Challoner looked at her with that dreadful dry-eyed despair that she had seen on his face so often during this last week.
“Does he still talk about me?” he asked.
Helen laid her hands on his shoulders.
“Yes, father,” she said; “but he does not know what he is saying. Indeed, he does not. He talks all sorts of nonsense. He has no idea what he says.”
“Ah, Helen, that is just it,” he moaned. “The poor lad speaks instinctively; he says what has become a habit of thought. Oh, my God, my God!”