“Oh yes, and we do not. Farewell, dear Mrs. Frost. Thank you truly for all your care and kindness.”
The tears stood in her eyes. She was to be the next one to go from us, after John Whitney.
Wolfe Barrington stood at the door as he passed. “Good luck to you, Whitney,” said he, carelessly. “I’d throw all those nerves of yours over, if I were you, before I came back again.”
Whitney turned back and held out his hand. “Thank you, Barrington,” he replied in his kind, truthful voice; “you wish me well, I know. Good luck to you, in all ways; and I mean it with my whole heart. As to nerves, I do not think I possess any, though some of you have been pleased to joke about it.”
They shook hands, these two, little thinking that, in one sense, the life of both would soon be blighted. In a short time, only a few weeks, Wolfe was to be brought nearer to immediate death than even John Whitney.
Not until he was at home and had settled down among them, did his people notice the great change in him. Lady Whitney, flurried and anxious, sent for Sir John from London. Mr. Carden was summoned, and old Featherstone met him often in consultation. Dr. Hastings came once or twice, but he was an invalid himself then; and Mr. Carden, as every one knew, was equal to anything. Still—it was a positive fact—there was no palpable disease to grapple with in John, only weakness and wasting away. No cough, no damaged lungs. “If only it were gout or dropsy, one would know what to do,” grumbled Featherstone; but Mr. Carden kept his own counsel. They decided that John should go to the seaside for change.
“As if it could do me any good!” he remonstrated. “Change won’t make any difference to me. And I’d a great deal rather stay quietly at home.”
“Why do you say it will not do you good?” cried Lady Whitney, who happened to hear him.
“Because, mother, I feel nearly sure that it will not.”
“Oh dear!” cried she, flurried out of her senses, “John’s going to turn rebellious now.”