He now took the extemporised fan from Lucy’s fingers, using it energetically, while she rose from her knees, and ran to get a pair of her sharpest scissors, with which Oldroyd remorselessly sheared off the long unkempt locks from his patient’s temples.
Meanwhile Alleyne lay there perfectly motionless, breathing heavily, and with a strange fixed look in his eyes. At times a slight spasm seemed to convulse him, but only to be succeeded by long intervals of rigidity, during which Lucy plied the fan, gazing at her brother with horror-stricken eyes, while Oldroyd continued the cold bathing in the most matter-of-fact manner.
“If we could get some ice,” muttered Oldroyd, as as he laid a cool hand upon his patient’s head; and just then Mrs Alleyne, looking very white and weak, came into the room.
“I am better now,” she whispered. “It was very foolish of me. What can I do?”
“Nothing, at present,” replied Oldroyd. “Yes; send to the Hall. I know they have ice there. Ask Sir John Day to let us have some at once.”
Mrs Alleyne darted an agonised look at her son, and then glided out of the room, when Lucy looked up piteously at Oldroyd.
“Pray, pray, tell me the truth,” she whispered; “does this mean—death?”
“Heaven forbid!” he replied, quickly. “It is a bad fit, but a man may have several such as this and live to seventy. Lucy, we were looking about for a means to a certain—keep on fanning, my dear, that’s right—certain end.”
“I don’t understand you,” she said piteously.
“Alleyne—Glynne—to bring them together. This is her work—thinking of her and over-toiling. Surely her place is here.”