To the uninstructed mind, that seemed the most hopeful thing yet extracted; yet something in Hugh’s face, dimly seen, and even in his attitude, gave his friend a sharp pang of uneasiness. The nurse went back to her place, her patient’s eyes were closed, and Wareham’s presence seemed to be unnoticed. All was silent except for the sound of breathing, the buzzing of a fly, and the occasional drip of melting ice through flannel. Wareham sat like a statue. His thoughts fastened themselves upon Anne Dalrymple’s name, and wondered impatiently how he was to learn the relations in which she and Hugh stood to each other. Except from herself, it seemed unlikely that he would learn anything. And how much did Hugh know? Had the letter overtaken him?
Restlessness came at intervals, and Wareham would have been sent away, but that the name of “Dick” was audible more than once in the wandering, and the nurse fancied that his presence had a quieting influence. It was quite an hour and a half before he stole out of the room and down to that which had been got ready for him.
After a bath, he had an interview with the doctor, a fair-haired young Norwegian, sensible, and, Wareham thought, clever. It was not reassuring. The disease had laid hold with great force, and there were grave fears as to the strength holding out. Still youth was on the side of hope. The doctor thought he had battled too long at first, when he dragged himself about, though feeling ill. Now, all was being done that could be thought of. If Mr Wareham wished for a third opinion, he could call in the head of the hospital; perhaps before doing so he would like to have a conversation with his compatriot? To this Wareham agreed, and after sending as favourable a telegram to the old father as conscience allowed, crept up to Hugh’s room again to learn that there was no change, and went down to wait for Dr Scott to return to the hotel.
The small salon had little to offer beyond a piano and some loose pieces of music. Wareham drew a chair to the window and sat there, watching the passers-by in the street. He had waited for half-an-hour before the English doctor came in, a sallow keen-eyed man, with spectacles.
“Mr Wareham?”
“And you are Dr Scott? Mr Forbes’ friends are greatly indebted to you.”
The other wasted no time in disclaiming. “I am glad you are come. Mr Forbes is very ill.”
“So I gather.” He had meant to have pushed the question of hope home to this doctor, but something within him revolted. Why insist upon a form of words?
“Of course,” the other went on, “you feel that he is at a disadvantage among strangers. But there are clever medical men here, and from what I have seen, you may have perfect confidence in young Sivertsen.” He spoke quickly. “Were I you, I would make no change.”
“I don’t dream of it, and what you say is very satisfactory. The utmost I thought of was the advisability of another opinion in consultation. If the case is so grave, it might be desirable for his father’s sake.”