Theodore looked the thanks that his heart was too heavy to speak. Mr. Hastings glanced up grimly as he entered Pliny's room, twenty minutes afterward, but did not choose to speak. Nobody noticed the omission—for eyes and thoughts were too entirely engrossed with the sufferer. And then commenced a hand-to-hand encounter with death. Day by day he relentlessly pursued his victim, and yet was mercifully kept at bay. The fever burned fiercely, and the faithful, watchful doctors worked constantly and eagerly. Theodore was constantly with his friend. When the delirium ran high this was absolutely necessary, for while Pliny did not seem to recognize him, yet he was calmer in his presence. Mr. Hastings had ceased to demur or grumble—indeed, sharp and persistent anxiety and fear had taken the place of all other feelings. Pliny had disappointed him, had angered him, had disgraced him at times, yet he reigned an idol in his father's heart.
During all these anxious days and nights Dr. Arnold's face had been grave and impassive, and his voice had failed to utter a single encouraging word. But one night he said, peremptorily:
"There are too many people, and there is too much moving around in this room every night. I want every single one of you to go to bed and to sleep, except this young man. You can stay, can you not?" This with a glance toward Theodore, who bowed in answer. "Well, then, you are the only watcher he needs, and the sooner the rest of you retire the better it will be for the patient."
Mr. Hastings rebelled utterly.
"There was no occasion for depending upon strangers," he said, haughtily. "Any or all of the family were ready to sit up; and besides, there were scores of intimate friends who had offered their aid."
And the doctor, quite as accustomed to having his own way as Mr. Hastings could possibly be, answered, testily:
"But the family and the 'scores of intimate friends' are just the beings that I don't want to-night, and this 'stranger' has proved himself a very faithful and efficient nurse during the last few weeks, and he is the one I'm going to leave in charge."
He carried his point, of course. Dr. Arnold always did. When the door was closed on the last departure he came with very quiet tread to Theodore's side, and spoke in subdued tones.
"This night is a matter of life and death with us; he needs the most close and careful watching; above all, he needs absolute quiet and the absence of all nervousness. There will be a change before morning—a very startling one perhaps. It is for this reason I have banished the family. I trust you, you see."
"I don't trust myself," answered Theodore, huskily, yet making a great effort to control his voice.