“My father has never seen him; he only returned home to-day, and Mr. Pritchard left before luncheon. He seemed very anxious to get back to London,” faltered Stella, conscious that she was blushing crimson under the steady gaze of Dr. Netherbridge’s blue eyes. “You have not told me yet whether there is any danger, and whether—whether I can see him.”
“I should not say there was any absolute danger except the risk that fever might supervene after the very unwise exertions of to-day. I intended going myself to Grayling to fetch a reliable nurse of my acquaintance. As to seeing him——” he paused, and looked at her doubtfully. “May I ask,” he inquired, abruptly, “whether the sight of you is likely to disturb him?”
She blushed deeper still.
“It might perhaps excite him a little,” she stammered; “but I would be very quiet, and would not speak more than you let me.”
“I am afraid it would be inadvisable,” said the little doctor, shaking his head. “Quiet is so essential. With rest and care, and obedience to orders, he ought to be as right as possible within a week. But any excitement to-night might produce the worst possible effect.”
Tears started to Stella’s eyes.
“Dr. Netherbridge,” she said, humbly, “I have an idea that I shall not have another opportunity of seeing Mr. Pritchard, perhaps, for a very long time. If I write something on a slip of paper, will you let him have it when he is better, and will you yourself tell him that I came, and that I may not be allowed to do so again? And may I see him just for one moment, without his seeing me?”
The doctor reflected a moment.
“He was sitting in an arm-chair when I left him,” he said. “He had refused strenuously to go to bed, and persisted in declaring he must get on to London to-night. If you will promise not to let your presence be known, you might come with me now, and see him at least.”
She stole up the stairs after the doctor, her heart beating wildly. Before a half-open door on the floor above he paused, and beckoned to her to join him. She was so much taller than he that she easily saw over his shoulder into the room. Hilary was leaning back in an old chintz-covered arm-chair. His coat was half off, and his wounded arm was resting in a sling fastened round his neck. His eyes were closed, and his brows contracted as if in pain. Tears rolled down Stella’s face as she looked at him. The room was lit by a single candle, and where she stood she was in semi-darkness, and undistinguishable. Something seemed to tell her that it might be long, very long, before she looked upon his face again, and that this love which had so suddenly sprung up within her heart was destined to be “tried by pain” indeed. A sob rose in her throat, and turning quickly away, that it might not be overheard by Hilary, she groped her way down to the coffee-room through her tears, and taking pen and paper from a side table, she scribbled the following lines: