Yet it was so, and she was tossing and
turning on a bed of pain to which the couch of Procustes was one of
roses. Sal sat beside her, ever watchful of her wants, and listened
through the bright hours of the day, or the still ones of the night, to
the wild and incoherent words which issued from her lips. She
incessantly called on her father to save himself, and then would talk
about Brian, and sing snatches of song, or would sob broken sentences
about her dead mother, until the heart of the listener ached to hear
her. No one was allowed into the room except Sal, and when Dr. Chinston
heard the things she was saying, although used to such cases, he
recoiled.
"There is blood on your hands," cried Madge, sitting up in bed, with
her hair all tangled and falling over her shoulders; "red blood, and
you cannot wash it off. Oh, Cain! God save him! Brian, you are not
guilty; my father killed him. God! God!" and she fell back on
her disordered pillows weeping bitterly.
Dr. Chinston did not say anything, but shortly afterwards took his
leave, after telling Sal on no account to let anyone see the patient.
"'Tain't likely," said Sal, in a disgusted tone, as she closed the door
after him. "I'm not a viper to sting the bosom as fed me," from which
it may be gathered she was advancing rapidly in her education.
Meanwhile Dr. Chinston had received Calton's telegram, and was
considerably astonished thereat.
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