“Anything I can do, I’ll do willingly,” was Gilbert’s prompt reply. “But how is your husband?”
At once the smile that had come into Mrs. Bartlett’s face for a moment faded away. “He is not doing so well,” she said lowly. “He does not seem to be able to get back to his right mind. And the fire has set him back, too.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“He says it is a peculiar case, and that my husband must have rest as much as medicine. But how can he have rest here?” And the woman wrung her hands.
Jennie Bartlett now appeared, and also shook hands. She said her father had heard Gilbert’s voice, and wished the young officer to come to him.
“Be careful of what you say to him,” whispered Mrs. Bartlett. “He is easily excited, and excitement is the worst possible thing for him.”
“I will be careful,” answered Gilbert, and followed her into the sick-chamber. He found Amos Bartlett lying on a wide bed in the centre of the room, and the Chinese servant was fanning him. The sufferer looked years older than when Gilbert had seen him before.
“So it is you, Pennington?” said Amos Bartlett, in a strangely unnatural voice. “I am glad to see you. I have been wanting to talk over that Importing Company’s affair with you. We have millions at stake, and—”
“Amos, please do not speak of that now,” interposed Mrs. Bartlett, soothingly. “I am sure Lieutenant Pennington will wait until you are better.”
“Yes; but, Viola, Ramsey Polk is a black-hearted swindler. He would ruin us all, sweep away our millions, and leave us beggars. And the fire, too! We shall be penniless, starving in the streets! Pennington can save us. I have thought it all over. He must fight a duel with Polk; and, being a soldier, he can easily run his man through. And then—ah, then we will be saved! Is it not an easy plan, Pennington?” And the sufferer turned his white and haggard face to the young Southerner.