Buntingford thanked him, remembering opportunely that when he had proposed to Ramsay to take the boy into his house, the doctor had accepted with a certain hesitation, which had puzzled him. "I will go over and see my cousin when I can be spared."
But a sudden call from the sickroom startled them both. Buntingford hurried forward.
When Buntingford entered he found the patient lying in a deep old-fashioned chair propped up by pillows. She had been supplied with the simplest of night-gear by Miss Alcott, and was wearing besides a blue cotton overall or wrapper in which the Rector's sister was often accustomed to do her morning's work. There was a marked incongruity between the commonness of the dress, and a certain cosmopolitan stamp, a touch of the grand air, which was evident in its wearer. The face, even in its mortal pallor and distress, was remarkable both for its intellect and its force. Buntingford stood a few paces from her, his sad eyes meeting hers. She motioned to him.
"Send them all away."
The doctors went, with certain instructions to Buntingford, one of them remaining in the room below. Buntingford came to sit close by her.
"They say I shall kill myself if I talk," she said in her gasping whisper. "It doesn't matter. I must talk! So—you don't doubt the boy?" Her large black eyes fixed him intently.
"No. I have no doubts—that he is my son. But his condition is very piteous. I have asked a specialist to come down."
There was a gleam of scorn in her expression.
"That'll do no good. I suppose—you think—we neglected the boy. Niente. We did the best we could. He was under a splendid man—in Naples—as good as any one here. He told me nothing could be done—and nothing can be done."
Buntingford had the terrible impression that there was a certain triumph in the faint tone. He said nothing, and presently the whisper began again.