‘My wife has been anxious, and over-fatigued, I fear, attending a dying servant.’
‘There is a good deal of fever. I fear the attack may be somewhat serious. You must get an experienced nurse without delay. It will be a case for good nursing. I don’t want to alarm you needlessly,’ added the doctor, seeing Churchill’s terror. ‘Mrs. Penwyn’s youth and fine constitution are strong points in our favour; but, from indications I perceive, I imagine that her health must have been impaired for some time past. There has been a gradual decay. An attack so sudden as this of to-day would not account for the care worn look of the countenance, or for this attenuation,’ gently raising the sleeper’s arm, from which the cambric sleeve had fallen back, the wasted wrist which Churchill remembered so round and plump.
‘Tell me the truth,’ said Churchill, in accents strangely unlike his customary clear and measured tones. ‘You think there is danger?’
‘Oh dear no, my dear sir, there is no immediate danger. With watchfulness and care we shall defeat that tendency towards death which has been described as symptomatic of all fever cases. I only regret that Mrs. Penwyn should have allowed her physical strength to sink to so low a point without taking remedial measures. That makes the fight harder in a sudden derangement of this kind.’
‘Do you imagine that it is a case of contagious fever—that my wife has taken the poison from the woman she nursed last night?’
‘Was Mrs. Penwyn with the woman before last night—some days ago, for instance?’
‘No; only last night.’
‘Then there can be no question of contagion. The fever would not declare itself so quickly. This feverish condition, in which I find your dear lady to-day, must have been creeping upon her for a week or ten days. The system has been out of order for a long time, I imagine, and some sudden chill may have developed the symptoms we have to regret to-day.’