He took alarm instantly, and sent off for Mr. Porter, though Mildred made light of her feelings next moment. The family practitioner sounded her with the usual professional gravity, but his face grew more serious as he listened to the beating of her heart. He affected, however, to think very little of her ailments, talked of nerves, and suggested bromide of something, as if it were infallible; but when George Greswold went out into the hall with him he owned that all was not right.
“The heart is weak,” he said. “I hope there may be no organic mischief, but—”
“You mean that I shall lose her,” interrupted Greswold, in a husky whisper.
His own heart was beating like the tolling of a church bell—beating with the dull, heavy stroke of despair.
“No, no. I don’t think there’s any immediate danger, but I should like you to take higher advice—Clark or Jenner, perhaps.”
“Of course. I will send for some one at once.”
“The very thing to alarm her. She ought to be kept free from all possible anxiety or excitement. Don’t let her ride—except in the quietest way—or walk far enough to fatigue herself. You might take her up to town for a few days on the pretence of seeing picture-galleries or something, and then coax her to consult a physician, just for your satisfaction. Make as light as you can of her complaint.”
“Yes, yes. I understand. O, God, that it should be so, after all; when I thought I had come to the end of sorrow!” This in an undertone. “For pity’s sake, Porter, tell me the worst! You think it a bad case?”
Porter shook his head, tried to speak, grasped George Greswold’s hand, and made for the door. Mr. and Mrs. Greswold had been his patients and friends for the last fifteen years, and in his rough way he was devoted to them.
“See Jenner as soon as you can,” he said. “It is a very delicate case. I would rather not hazard an opinion.”