I was standing up by the table. He held out his hand to shake mine. Thin and shadowy he always looked, but his face wore a grey hue in the dusk of the room.
"I fear you are very ill, sir. Suppose it should be the fever?"
"It is not the fever."
"But how can you tell it is not?"
"Do not be alarmed. It is nothing but—but what I have had before. Good-night, and take care of yourself."
His tone was strangely sad, his spirits were evidently depressed, and a foreboding of ill fell upon me. It was not lessened when I heard that a bed was made up for him in the west wing, that Lady Chandos and Hill might be within call in the night in case of need.
Therefore, when consternation broke over the house next morning, I was half prepared for it. Mr. Chandos was alarmingly ill, and a telegraphic express had gone up at dawn for a London physician.
It was so sudden, so unexpected, that none of the household seemed able to comprehend it. As to Hill, she bustled about like one demented. A large table was placed at the west wing door, and things likely to be wanted in the sickroom were carried up and put there, ready to her hand.
The physician, a Dr. Amos, arrived in the afternoon, the carriage having been sent to await him at the Hetton terminus. A slight-made man, dressed in black, with a Roman nose, and glasses resting on it. Hickens marshalled him to the door of the west wing, where Hill received him.
He stayed a long while; but they said he was taking refreshments as well as seeing his patient. The servants all liked Mr. Chandos, and they stood peeping in doorways, anxious for the doctor to come out. Hill came down and caught them, a jug in hand.