Doctor Praed’s forehead grew more wrinkled day by day; and there was a hard, stern look in his eyes as the time slowly glided on, and the fever fought stoutly against all the medical skill which could be brought to bear.
And all the time he was haunted by the piteous, almost upbraiding, look of Dinah, which wistfully followed every movement, paining the old man so that at last he avoided it when he spoke to her; and in his ignorance inflicted stab after stab.
“It is the great trouble which is killing him. I never could have thought that he would care so much for money, my child. But I suppose he felt that his honour was at stake after all that he said to his friends who took shares in the mine. I wish you were not here.”
“Why, Doctor Praed?” said Dinah faintly, as she recalled her last parting from Clive, and thought how little the visitor knew.
“Because I should like to let my tongue run loose and say all manner of evil things concerning that wretched mine. But I suppose I must not.” Dinah rose and laid her hand upon his arm.
“You do not talk to me about Clive,” she whispered. “You cannot think of the agony I suffer.”
“I do not speak because to one like you it would be cruel to talk in the slow, hopeful twaddle used by some of my weak brethren. My dear child, there is nothing to say. His life is not in my hands. We can only wait.”
“But, Doctor, think, for pity’s sake, think—is there nothing that can be done? It is maddening to stand here helpless and see him gliding slowly away from us. For he is weaker. I did hope that the quiet which has come over him was a change for the better. I know now that it is all increasing weakness.”
“May I come in?” said the Major at the door.
The Doctor hurriedly moved to him, glad of an excuse to escape from those pleading eyes, and followed the Major into the adjoining room.