He flourished his right hand wildly in the air. He saw that it was bleeding.
“See, see!” he called to them. “At last he is dead. I have killed him! I have killed him!”
The room seemed to recede in the distance. Something snapped inside his brain. Everything was different. Mr. and Mrs. Elliott, with shrieks of terror, were moving to the pantry-door far at the other end. Confusedly he saw Julia try to force herself toward him; saw her half come, heard his name on her lips. He wanted to smile, he wanted to bend down over her affectionately; but when he sought to reach her with his bloody hand, she shrank back, turned, and fled with the others. He shouted to them; but he stumbled, and thought he might fall. He caught hold of the table. After that all was blackness.
He awoke amid the appointments of the chamber which Julia had called his room. A quick flood of memories, some clear and accurate, others vague and troublesome, inundated his tired consciousness. Gradually he became aware of a thick, muddy pain rolling in dreadful rhythmic waves through his head. He looked toward the clock on the mantelpiece to see if it wasn’t time to get up. He met the eyes of Mrs. Elliott. He lifted himself, falling back on the pillow. The pillow was as cold as ice. She came over to him.
“Dear boy—you feel better?”
“Better? Better?” he echoed. “Why are you here?”
“Your head is cooler. You’ve been—you—my dear child, you may as well know it—you fainted last night—yesterday. You were worn out; you caught cold, and had—a chill. You hadn’t eaten anything since—not since—” She fondled the bed-clothes. “You’ll be all right now. Your head—struck something. The doctor said you weren’t to talk—”
It hurt him to move his eyes. The sockets ached. He tried hard to realize what she had told him, repeating snatches of it feverishly over to himself.
“Is it dangerous?” he finally got to the point of asking.
“No; a slight—just a very slight concussion.”