"I know that I shall start by the tidal train to-morrow morning, Charley. Now don't argue with me, for my mind is made up."
But Robert Streightley did not start to Paris by the next morning's tidal train. As he sat that night talking over his intended journey with his friend, Yeldham saw the colour fade out of his face, the light out of his eyes,--finally saw him go off in a dead swoon. Yeldham carried him to his own bed, and sent for a doctor, who peremptorily forbade any notion of his being moved for days. "It might cost him his life," he said. And Robert, made acquainted with the veto, after some murmuring, acquiesced in it, and fell back, weak and wavering, to sleep.
"I don't like your friend's symptoms, Mr. Yeldham," said Dr. Mannering to Charley. "Has he had any great mental strain or worry lately? Ah, I thought so. I'm afraid there's very little doubt that his heart's affected."
[CHAPTER V.]
FAILURE.
Robert could not leave Yeldham's chambers for several days after the astute doctor for whom Charley had sent had hazarded his guess about the "mental" sources of his patient's illness; and as the strictest quiet was enjoined, reference to the agitating subject of Katharine and Mrs. Stanbourne's letter had to be strictly avoided. Such avoidance was much less difficult than Yeldham had apprehended it would be; for Robert's exhaustion was extreme, and he readily accepted his friend's assurance that he knew what he wished to have done, and that it should be done without any delay.
"I've sent a line to your mother, Robert, and told her not to frighten herself; and I've had a bed put ready for me in the comer; so you've nothing to do and nothing to think about except getting well."
"And Katharine?" said Robert, with a vague, wan, painful smile.
"Well, and Katharine; but there's nothing to be done until you get well--think of that, my dear fellow, and try--except what I have done, what I did last night when you were asleep."
Robert's hollow eyes questioned him eagerly.