The doctor nodded. "All right so far; the patient's strong constitution will stand him in stead now," he said, quietly, glancing towards the old man. "At present all depends upon the nursing; I must leave. For some time he must not stir from his present position. There must be no hemorrhage from the wound——"
"I will see to that," the other interrupted him, eagerly; "I will stay as long as careful watching is needed. Will you not leave word at the villa that I shall not come back to tea?"
A slight flush mounted to the physician's cheek, and there was some embarrassment in the tone of his reply: "I cannot go round through the park. I must get to town as quickly as possible——"
"You have not seen Flora to-day, doctor——"
"I know that well enough. I——" He paused, compressed his lips, and took up his case of instruments. "I have some patients very ill," he went on, calmly: "the little Lenz girl will die before to-morrow morning. I cannot save the child, but the parents, who are utterly exhausted with nursing and anxiety, are counting the moments while I am away from them; the mother will eat only when I insist upon it."
Ho approached the bed, where the sick man raised his eyes to him with a look of perfect consciousness; there was even a glimmer of gratitude in them for the sudden and unspeakable relief he had experienced. He would have taken his benefactor's hand, but the latter imposed quiet with his own, as he reiterated the necessity for avoiding all motion whatever. "The councillor will remain here, Herr Sommer," he added, "and see that my injunctions are strictly obeyed."
This seemed to content the old man; he looked towards the councillor, who confirmed by a nod the physician's words, and then he closed his eyes as if to try to sleep. Doctor Bruck took his hat, gave his hand to the councillor, and left the room.
To an anxious wife seated by the bedside of the patient his departure would have been the signal for a weary sense of forlornness,—the opposite of the fresh courage with which his coming inspired the poor mother who took needful nourishment only at his request. But no such loving anxiety watched by this man's couch. The old housekeeper, who came into the room to put it in order after the doctor's visit, looked coldly indifferent; she flitted about like a bat, and seemed much more distressed by a few drops of water that marred the polish upon one of her tables than by the danger that had threatened her master's life.
"Pray let that be for the present, Susie," the councillor said, in his most courteous tone. "Your rubbing that table makes a noise very irritating to the nerves; Doctor Bruck prescribes absolute repose for Papa."
Susie hastily picked up housecloth and broom, and betook herself to her neat and shining kitchen, there to forget the stains upon the table. As perfect quiet as was possible in the mill reigned in the room she had left; up through the floor came the continuous, measured beat of machinery; the water tumbling over the weir outside sang its perpetual refrain, and now and then the doves fluttered against the window-pane, or cooed in the branches of the ancient chestnuts, through which the western light faintly illumined the room. These mingled noises did not exist as such for the sick man, however: they were as much part and parcel of his existence as the beating of his heart.