Two months had slipped away, and still Charles Williams remained a
patient in the Westlake Hospital at Sydney. At length, after a
consultation of the doctors, it was proposed that he should be
consigned to the workhouse infirmary.
"We can't keep him here forever," said Dr. Emerton; "and as all the
beds will be wanted with this outbreak of diphtheria, I see nothing
else to be done."
"Well," said Dr. Belton, "I am deeply interested in his case, and if
you agree, I will take him under my own particular charge. You know I
have a few rooms set apart for such cases in my house at Brookmere. I
will take him there, and see what I can do for him."
"Very kind of you, I am sure," said Dr. Emerton. "You can afford that
sort of thing--I can't. I should have sent him to the infirmary, where
he would be under Dr. Hutchinson's care; but, of course, he will be
better off in your private hospital."
And one day in the following week, Dr. Belton took home with him the
invalid, whose case he had already described to his wife and children,
so that when the stooping figure emerged from the carriage leaning
heavily on the arm of the nurse who accompanied him, he was received
with kindness and warmth, Mrs. Belton herself meeting him with
outstretched hands of welcome.
"Very glad to see you, Mr. Williams. You will soon get better here, I
think."
Cardo looked at her with no intelligence in his eyes. "Yes, thank
you," was all he said, as he passed with his nurse into the bright,
cosy room relegated to the use of the patients, who were so fortunate,
or so unfortunate as to arouse more than usual interest in Dr. Belton's
mind.
"Now, nurse," said the doctor, "give him a good tea, and a little of
that cold quail, and after tea I will come and have a chat with him."
Later on in the evening he kept his word and found Cardo sunk in the
depths of an arm-chair, watching with lack-lustre eyes, while the Dr.'s
two boys tried their skill at a game of bagatelle.
"Well, Williams, and how are you now? tired, eh?" he asked.
"Yes," said Cardo, turning his eyes upon the doctor with a look of
bewilderment, which reminded him of the look of dumb inquiry in the
eyes of a troubled dog.
"You will like this better than the hospital I am sure. Do you love
children?"
"No," was Cardo's laconic reply, at which the doctor smiled.
He tried many subjects but failed to get any further answer than "yes"
or "no." Most men would have been discouraged when several weeks
passed over, and still his patient showed very little signs of
improvement. It is true, now he would answer more at length, but he
was never heard to volunteer a remark, though he sat for hours in what
looked like a "brown study," in which probably only indistinct forms
and fantastic shapes passed before his mind's eye. And latterly the
doctor too had frequently been observed to fall into a reverie, while
his eyes were fixed on Charles Williams's motionless attitude. After
much thought, he would sit beside his patient and try to interest him
in something going on around him.