Rarely had Jane witnessed so beautiful a view as that which met her sight the following morning, when she drew up her blind. The previous day had been hazy—nothing was to be seen; now the atmosphere had cleared. The great extent of scenery spread around, the green fields, the growing corn, the sparkling rivulets, the woods with their darker and their brighter trees, the undulating slopes—all were charming. But beyond all, and far more charming, bounding the landscape in the distant horizon, stretched the long chain of the far-famed Malvern Hills. As the sun cast upon them its light and shade, their outline so clearly depicted against the sky, and their white villas peeping out from the trees at their base—Jane felt that she could have gazed for ever. A wondrous picture is that of Malvern, as seen from Helstonleigh in the freshness of the early morning.
"Edgar!" she impulsively exclaimed, turning to the bed—for Mr. Halliburton had not risen—"you never saw anything more beautiful than the view from this window. I am sure half the Londoners never dreamt of anything like it."
There was no reply. "Perhaps he may be still asleep," she thought. But upon approaching the bed, she saw that his eyes were open.
"Jane," he gasped, "I am ill."
"Ill!" she repeated, a spasm darting through her heart.
"Every limb is paining me. My head aches, and I am burning with fever. I have felt it coming on all night."
She bent down; she felt his hands and his hot face—all burning, as he said, with fever.
"We must call in a doctor," she quietly said, suppressing every sign of dismay, that it might not agitate him. "I will ask Patience to recommend one."
"Yes; better have a doctor at once. What will become of us? If I should be going to have an illness——"
"Stay, Edgar; do not give way to sad anticipations," she gently said. "A brave mind, you know, goes half way towards a cure. It is the effect of that wetting; the cold must have been smouldering within you."