‘Philip Debenham, you have come. It is well!’
This was his greeting, as Tor came and stood beside the bed. The young man took the cold, powerless hand in his strong grasp, and uttered a few kindly and cheering words. There was something reassuring in his strength and vitality, and he possessed that ready gentleness which is the almost invariable attribute of unusual physical power. Father and daughter both felt the better for his presence in the room.
Tor gave his hand to Roma, and looked at her with the grave sympathy of comprehension. Then he crossed over to her, and placed a chair beside the bed.
‘Sit down,’ he said, with quiet authority. ‘You must not waste your strength. Mr. Meredith, I am going to prescribe for your daughter.’
‘Do so—do so!’ said Meredith, with gentle satisfaction in his tone. ‘She needs more care than I can give.’
Roma certainly looked less white and shaken after she had swallowed the potion Tor mixed for her. The shock and strain that had tried her powers so sorely that day, had begun to make itself felt, and it was time that help should come.
When Tor came round to his old position at the bedside, he fancied that Meredith’s face had changed somewhat for the better. Either the extreme ghastliness had passed off a little, or else his eyes had grown used to it.
‘You had better sleep if you can, sir,’ suggested Tor persuasively. ‘I will sit beside you, if that will be any satisfaction. Sleep will restore you better than anything;’ and he drew up a chair and prepared to follow out his own part of the programme.
‘Stop!’ said Meredith, slowly and softly, as if speaking were still something of an effort; ‘sleep can wait. Sleep will come later. First I must set my mind at rest.’
‘Will not you be able to do that better after you have slept?’ suggested Tor, who had a distinct dread of what he felt was coming.