We carried him on a hurdle to the Rectory, and for days he hung between life and death. Sometimes it seemed impossible to believe that a creature so full of life as Frank could die, and then again it seemed incredible that any one so terribly wounded could live. But at last lock-jaw set in, and then the doctors pronounced the case absolutely hopeless.
It was torture to me to see Fay's agony of mind; yet there was a sweetness mingled with the bitterness in my knowledge of the fact that she turned to me for help and comfort; at least, hardly for comfort—the time for comfort had not yet arrived, but for that sympathy in her sorrow, which is very near akin to consolation.
Annabel was very capable and efficient during this sad time—a veritable rock of strength to all of us who clung to her. But although she could have done far more for Fay than my poor, blundering, male self could ever do, I could not blind my eyes to the fact that—with sweet, childish perversity—Fay clung to me rather than to Annabel. That the child was foolish in this, I could not but admit; but I loved her all the more for her dear folly.
I had come to the Rectory to hear the verdict of the great specialist from London, and he had gone back to town, leaving Jeffson, our local doctor, to make Frank's passing as easy as possible. Fay was with the nurses in Frank's room, and I was loafing aimlessly about with nothing to do, and nothing that was worth doing. Like all days of great sorrow, the day seemed neither a Sunday nor a weekday, but a sort of terrible Good Friday, with the darkness and the earthquake looming nearer every moment.
Apart from my agony of pity for Fay, I was sorely grieved on my own account at the thought of losing Frank. A strong friendship had grown up between the boy and myself—a friendship that was fraught with joy for me. Although I had eschewed the avuncular attitude arranged for me by Annabel towards Fay, I had accepted it with regard to Frank; and when I heard the verdict of the great doctor from London, I felt as if I were indeed losing a dearly-beloved nephew.
Whilst I was aimlessly wandering about the Rectory dining-room, Arthur came in.
"How is the boy now?" I asked, though I knew too well what the answer would be.
"Just the same. Jeffson says there will not be much change now until the end."
"And Fay?"
"Bearing up wonderfully, poor child! She is so brave and calm now that I fear it will be the worse for her when the need for calmness and courage is over. Reggie, I have telephoned for Henderson, and he is coming at once."