“Go on, Cole,” cried the Squire, nodding approval.
“I told him the truth, softening it in a degree—that I did not altogether like some of the symptoms, but that I hoped, with skill and care, to get him round again. The same day he sent for Darbyshire of Timberdale, saying we must attend him conjointly, for two heads were better than one. Two days later he sent for somebody else—no other than Mr. Ben Rymer.”
We all screamed out in surprise. “Ben Rymer!”
“Ay,” said Cole, “Ben Rymer. Ben has got through and is a surgeon now, like the rest of us. And, upon my word, I believe the fellow has his profession thoroughly in hand. He will make a name in the world, the chances for it being afforded him, unless I am mistaken.”
Something like moisture stood in the Squire’s good old eyes. “If his father, poor Rymer, had but lived to see it!” he softly said. “Anxiety, touching Ben, killed him.”
“So we three doctors make a pilgrimage to Sir Dace regularly everyday; sometimes together, sometimes apart,” added Cole. “And, of the three of us, I believe the patient likes young Rymer best—has most confidence in him.”
“Shall you cure him?”
“Well, we do not yet give up hope. If the disease does set in, it will——”
“What?”
“Run its course quickly.”