“I’d say, send for other advice directly, Salis,” he said drearily; “but if you had the heads of the profession here, they could do nothing but wait. The fever will run its course. We can do nothing but watch.”
“And pray,” said Salis sternly.
“And pray,” said the doctor, repeating his words. “Will you send over to the town, and telegraph?”
“No,” replied the curate. “I have confidence in you, North.”
He said no more, but turned into his study to hide his emotion, while North crossed to where poor helpless Mary lay back in her chair, looking white and ten years older as her eyes sought his, dumbly asking for comfort.
He took her hand, and kissed it, retaining it in his for a few minutes, as he stood talking to her, trying to instil hope, and little thinking of the agony he caused.
“I’ll go to her now,” he said. “There, try and be hopeful and help me to cheer up poor Hartley. He wants comfort badly. I’ll come and tell you myself if there is any change.”
“The truth,” said Mary faintly.
“The truth? Yes: to you,” he said meaningly; and his words seemed to convey that she was so old in suffering that she could bear to be told anything, though perhaps it might be withheld from her brother.
Mrs Milt, who had been an untiring watcher by the sick-bed, made her report—one that she had had to repeat again and again—of restless mutterings and delirium: otherwise no change.