“Who'd a thought that with all I been through, I'd have lived to such a thin-blooded old age, where my friends can't count on me to do for them the things they can no longer do for themselves! Since your father died, Steve, I haven't cared for any man the way I care for Jake Benson. I was some use to your father; but I'm not a damn bit of use to Jake.”
“But you mustn't take this view of the case,” urged Stephen. “After all, he will probably be up and about in the morning.”
“Do you think that, Steve?” demanded Gibbs with passionate earnestness.
“Yes.”
“Well, I don't! He'll never leave that bed alive!”
They went back into the room, but there was no appreciable change in Benson's condition. He slept, or seemed to sleep, and Gibbs was finally prevailed upon to go into the next room and lie down, while Stephen and Doctor Anderson watched the sick man. And while they watched, the night wore on; and at last the cold grey of dawn filled the room; and the lamp they had kept burning on a stand back of a screen in one corner of the room, was extinguished.
By this time the whole household was awake. They heard the servants moving about below stairs; and presently Andrew tapped softly on the door, and told them that breakfast was served. Stephen went down alone, and then relieved the doctor; next Gibbs was called, and breakfasted, and it was midmorning; but Benson still lay as he had during the greater part of the night.
Julia came and established herself in the region below stairs, assuming the direction of the household. The sick-room she left to Stephen, the doctor, and Gibbs.
In the afternoon Benson seemed somewhat better. He talked now as he had not before done, to Stephen and Gibbs. At last he called Stephen to his side.
“Do you think, Stephen, that your aunt could be induced to come here, to humour the whim of a sick man—a very sick man? Do you think she would come if you went for her?”