“Father, did Mr Gray tell you what I had to do?”
“He did not. I did not ask him. Whatever it is, do it. Go up-stairs now and see the doctors.”
My father opened the drawing-room door and pushed me out. He locked the door behind me. I heard him pacing the little room, and his groans of agony reached me through the thin panels of the locked door. I stumbled up-stairs. On the landing I met George. His hair was ruffled; his eyes red and sunk into his head. He had evidently been crying—crying, hard man that he was, until his eyelids were swelled and blistered.
“So you have come, Rose,” he said; “that is well. You will put everything right, of course?”
“You have seen Mr Gray, too,” I whispered. “Yes, yes; for God’s sake don’t lose a minute in putting things straight.”
“But can I?” I whispered back. “Even money cannot always, always save.”
“You can but try,” retorted George. “Go and speak to the doctors. Our mother’s life depends on your actions I am firmly convinced. Here is Dr Johnson. Will you talk to my sister, doctor?”
The family physician motioned me into a spare bedroom. He introduced me to the London doctor, and they began a semi-technical explanation of my mother’s case.
“Things are bad, but not hopeless,” said Dr Keith. “If certain measures are taken directly, there is no reason why Mrs Lindley may not revive and gain strength, and have many years of life before her. Her lungs are undoubtedly affected, but the worst mischief is in connection with the heart. Listen, Miss Lindley. I have one emphatic direction to give. Your mother must have no more worries.”
“No more worries,” I repeated under my breath. “Yes, yes, I understand.”