Following their glance, Ronnie saw, beside the bed-lamp, a handkerchief--a stained handkerchief. Scarcely conscious of his action, he fumbled in the pocket of the overcoat he was still wearing, found his own handkerchief, dipped it in the soap-basin, and wiped the blood-clots from his mother's lips. Faintly, the lips murmured: "Smithers--want Smithers--want clean sheets."
"Please don't talk, Mrs. Cavendish," interrupted the doctor's voice.
"You're all right now, mater." Ronnie grasped the situation. "Quite all right. I know exactly what you want done. I'll tell Smithers for you." "She'd like her maid," he whispered to the doctor. "She'd like clean pillow-cases."
"Of course she would." The answer sounded loud, almost cheerful. "Of course, she'd like clean pillow-cases. But not for another half-hour, Mrs. Cavendish. I want you to rest. I must insist on your resting."
Julia's eyes closed.
"We shall have to have a hospital-nurse," whispered Dr. Redbank. "If you'll stay with her I'll go and telephone for one." He tiptoed from the room, leaving mother and son alone.
For a long time, hours as it seemed, Ronnie stood watchful. His mother must be asleep--safe--out of pain. A great rush of gratitude, gratitude to some unknown deity, overwhelmed him. Quietly he drew a chair to the bedside. Quietly he sat down. But the faint noise disturbed the woman on the bed. Her eyelids fluttered; and she tried to speak--indistinctly, incoherently, choking on each word.
"Ronnie,"--her first thoughts, as always, were for him--"did I--frighten--you?"
"Mater," he implored, "please don't try and talk. If there's anything you want, just look at it, and I'll get it for you.''
"Ice," she choked, "more ice."