‘Am I much hurt?’
‘My poor fellow,’ said the doctor, ‘we must hope; but it is my duty to tell you that there is the gravest danger in your case. It is only right that you should know it.’
He had guessed it.
He knew what the grave faces and the weeping wife meant. He was in danger of his life. He knew what the awful pain meant, and the weakness that almost robbed him of his voice.
‘You won’t go away, Ruth?’ he said, feebly, as his wife bent towards him.
‘No,’ sobbed Ruth; ‘I shall not leave you. They will let me stay.’
The doctors were still by the bedside.
He saw them—he saw Ruth—he dimly remembered all that had happened now, and, just as the remembrance was getting clearer, everything faded, and he relapsed into unconsciousness again.
Ruth, watching by the unconscious form of her husband knew the worst. In mercy the doctors had told her. Her husband had been brought in from the railway with terrible internal injuries, which must be fatal. He had been identified as Squire Heritage by the papers in his pocket, and his wife had been sent for by the railway officials. He was dying. The doctor told her he would not live four-and-twenty hours. Science could do nothing.
It was near midnight when he came to himself again, and a great screen was drawn about his bed. He was weaker now, but he did not feel the pain so much; only there was a sensation of floating away. His body seemed too light to stay where it was. He looked up, and saw his wife’s face pressed down on the pillow by his, her sweet eyes watching for the return of consciousness.