Before the doctor came, Mr. Bradshaw had opened his eyes and
partially rallied, although he either did not, or could not
speak. He looked struck down into old age. His eyes were
senseless in their expression, but had the dim glaze of many
years of life upon them. His lower jaw fell from his upper one,
giving a look of melancholy depression to the face, although the
lips hid the unclosed teeth. But he answered correctly (in
monosyllables, it is true) all the questions which the doctor
chose to ask. And the medical man was not so much impressed with
the serious character of the seizure as the family, who knew all
the hidden mystery behind, and had seen their father lie for the
first time with the precursor aspect of death upon his face.
Rest, watching, and a little medicine, were what the doctor
prescribed; it was so slight a prescription, for what had appeared
to Mr. Benson so serious an attack, that he wished to follow the
medical man out of the room to make further inquiries, and learn
the real opinion which he thought must lurk behind. But, as he
was following the doctor, he--they all--were aware of the effort
Mr. Bradshaw was making to rise, in order to arrest Mr. Benson's
departure. He did stand up, supporting himself with one hand on
the table, for his legs shook under him. Mr. Benson came back
instantly to the spot where he was. For a moment it seemed as if
he had not the right command of his voice: but at last he said,
with a tone of humble, wistful entreaty, which was very
touching--
"He is alive, sir; is he not?"
"Yes, sir--indeed he is; he is only hurt.
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