This was a wonderful concession on the Squire’s part. But Tarpan was the fastest horse in the stable, and Churchill was nervously anxious for the coming of the doctor. That heavy breathing might mean nothing—or it might——! He dared not think of coming ill—now—when he had built his life on new lines,—content to accept a future shorn of all that glorifies life, in the minds of worldings, so that he kept Madge, and Madge’s fond and faithful heart.
Tarpan was brought out, a fine upstanding horse, as Hunter called him, head and neck full of power, eye a trifle more fiery than a timid horseman might have cared to see it.
‘He’s likely to go rather wild in harness, isn’t he, sir?’ asked Hunter, contemplating the bay dubiously.
‘Not if you know how to drive,’ answered the Squire. ‘The man I bought him from used to drive him tandem. Ask Dr. Hillyard to come back with you at once. You can say that I am anxious about Mrs. Penwyn.’
‘Yes, sir. Very sorry to hear your lady is not well, sir. Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘I hope not, but you can tell Dr. Hillyard I am anxious.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Churchill saw the man drive away—the bright harness and Tarpan’s shining coat glancing gaily between the pine trees as the dog-cart spun along the avenue—and then went back to his wife’s room and sat by the bedside, and never left his post till Dr. Hillyard arrived, three hours later. Madge had slept all the time, but still with that heavy laboured breathing which had alarmed her husband.
Dr. Hillyard came quietly into the room, a small, grey-headed old man, whose opinion had weight in Seacomb and for miles round. He sat by the bed, felt the patient’s wrist, lifted the heavy eyelids, prolonged his examination, with a serious aspect.
‘There has been mental disturbance, has there not?’ he asked.