On the following day, a desire took possession of the guardian to visit his dear ward in the sick-chamber. Rosalind, who had clung to her post, defiant of fatigue and sleep, had been prevailed upon in deference to her father’s peremptory command to seize an hour’s sleep in her own room.
“I will sit with him myself,” said the captain. “You must not be selfish, my child, in using your privilege. You forget that what gratifies you may also be a pleasure to others. I am going to town in a few days. Who knows if I may see the dear fellow again.”
“Father!” exclaimed Rosalind, seizing his arm almost roughly; “he is getting better. The doctor says so.”
“My poor child,” said her father, with a forced cheerfulness far more terrifying to the girl than his previous melancholy, “I was wrong to alarm you. Yes, of course he is getting better; of course. Come, we must all be brave.”
Rosalind, quite broken down, went to her bed and cried herself to sleep.
When the captain entered the sick-chamber, he found the mother at the bedside.
“My dear Eva,” said he, “let me beg you to take a little rest. I will remain here. Do give me the pleasure for once. You know how I shall value the privilege.”
Mrs Ingleton, who was in truth fairly worn out, was fain to consent, on condition that she should be called at once if necessary.
Having escorted her affectionately to the door, Captain Oliphant seated himself at the bedside, and looked hard at his ward.
The boy lay in a feverish doze, his large dark eyes half-closed, and his head turning now and again restlessly on the pillow.