“No, no,” said Halleck, smiling sadly: the case certainly had its ludicrous side. “He doesn't need a doctor. You mustn't think of calling a doctor. Indeed you mustn't. He'll come out all right of himself. If you sent for a doctor, it would make him very angry.”
She burst into tears. “Well, I will do what you say,” she cried. “It would never have happened, if it hadn't been for me. I want to tell you what I did,” she went on wildly. “I want to tell—”
“Please don't tell me anything, Mrs. Hubbard! It will all come right—and very soon. It isn't anything to be alarmed about. He'll be well in a few hours. I—ah—Good by.” He had found his cane, and he made a limp toward the door, but she swiftly interposed herself.
“Why,” she panted, in mixed reproach and terror, “you're not going away? You're not going to leave me before Bartley is well? He may get worse,—he may die! You mustn't go, Mr. Halleck!”
“Yes, I must,—I can't stay,—I oughtn't to stay,—it won't do! He won't get worse, he won't die.” The perspiration broke out on Halleck's face, which he lifted to hers with a distress as great as her own.
She only answered, “I can't let you go; it would kill me. I wonder at your wanting to go.”
There was something ghastly comical in it all, and Halleck stood in fear of its absurdity hardly less than of its tragedy. He rapidly revolved in his mind the possibilities of the case. He thought at first that it might be well to call a doctor, and, having explained the situation to him, pay him to remain in charge; but he reflected that it would be insulting to ask a doctor to see a man in Hubbard's condition. He took out his watch, and saw that it was six o'clock; and he said, desperately, “You can send for me, if you get anxious—”
“I can't let you go!”
“I must really get my breakfast—”
“The girl will get something for you here! Oh, don't go away!” Her lip began to quiver again, and her bosom to rise.