The Tower Rooms

by Mary Grant Bruce

There was no doubt that Mrs. McNab was ill—her appearance bore out all Julia’s description. She tried to make as little of it as possible, declaring that she was used to such attacks, and that a day in bed was all she needed; she had taken the necessary medicine, and utterly refused to see a doctor. But she did not resist being taken down to the vacant room near mine, and leaned heavily upon me as I helped her down the stairs. I was thankful when I saw her safely in bed.

“Don’t trouble about me,” she said weakly. “My head aches badly: I am better alone. It will pass off after a time. But you must bring the letters to me as soon as the post-bag comes from Wootong—promise me, Miss Earle.”

I promised, seeing that nothing else would keep her quiet. But when the mail arrived, the bundle of letters, which she turned over with shaking fingers, did not contain the one for which she longed.

“There is nothing from Transom,” she declared tragically. “I am afraid Ronald’s fear is only too well-founded.” She turned her face to the wall with a smothered groan.

It was the longest day that I had spent in The Towers. There was scarcely anything that I could do for my patient—she had no wishes, and would take hardly any nourishment. Beryl paid her a casual visit, and then left her to my care—Mother was like this occasionally, she said, and wanted only to be let alone until she was better. Harry was more concerned, but accepted philosophically the view that he could do nothing in the sick-room and would be of more practical use if he kept the house quiet by taking every one out: and presently all the party went off for an excursion, and with the throb of the departing motors The Towers settled down to silence. Judy and Jack had gone treasure-hunting again, taking their lunch with them. There was nothing for me to do but sit in my room, going often to steal a quiet look at my patient, who generally lay with closed eyes, her face grey against the white linen of the pillow.

She roused a little towards evening, and permitted me to take her temperature, which I found far too high for my peace of mind, though the thermometer’s reading did not trouble Mrs. McNab.

“Oh yes—it is often like that,” she said. “Give me some more of the medicine: it will be better in the morning.” She smiled feebly at my anxious face. “There is really no need for alarm, so far as I am concerned. The worst feature is that these attacks leave me so terribly weak: I am a wreck for days after one. And I have no time to be a wreck just now.”

This was so true than any comment on my part was needless; I could only beg her not to worry, which I felt to be a singularly stupid remark. She took a little nourishment, and soon afterwards fell into a heavy sleep, from which she did not stir until after midnight. Then she woke and smiled at me, and asked the time.

“And you still up!” she said reproachfully. “You must go to bed at once, Miss Earle. I am better, and there is no need whatever for you to sit up any longer.”

She was evidently better, and the temperature, though not yet normal, had gone down. I made her take a little chicken-broth and shook up her pillows, putting on cool, fresh covers.