I told him the time.
‘Has Lady Glyde been in the room since?'
I replied that she had not. The doctor had absolutely forbidden her to come into the room on the evening before, and had repeated the order again in the morning.
‘Have you and Mrs Rubelle been made aware of the full extent of the mischief?' was his next question.
We were aware, I answered, that the malady was considered infectious.
He stopped me before I could add anything more.
‘It is typhus fever,' he said.
In the minute that passed, while these questions and answers were going on, Mr Dawson recovered himself, and addressed the Count with his customary firmness.
‘It is not typhus fever,' he remarked sharply. ‘I protest against this intrusion, sir. No one has a right to put questions here but me. I have done my duty to the best of my ability --'
The Count interrupted him -- not by words, but only by pointing to the bed. Mr Dawson seemed to feel that silent contradiction to his assertion of his own ability, and to grow only the more angry under it.
‘I say I have done my duty,' he reiterated. ‘A physician has been sent for from London. I will consult on the nature of the fever with him, and with no one else. I insist on your leaving the room.'
‘I entered this room, sir, in the sacred interests of humanity,' said the Count. ‘And in the same interests, if the coming of the physician is delayed, I will enter it again. I warn you once more that the fever has turned to typhus, and that your treatment is responsible for this lamentable change. If that unhappy lady dies, I will give my testimony in a court of justice that your ignorance and obstinacy have been the cause of her death.'
Before Mr Dawson could answer, before the Count could leave us, the door was opened from the sitting-room, and we saw Lady Glyde on the threshold.
‘I must and will come in,' she said, with extraordinary firmness. instead of stopping her, the Count moved into the sitting-room, and made way for her to go in. On all other occasions he was the last man in the world to forget any-thing, but in the surprise of the moment he apparently forgot the danger of infection from typhus, and the urgent necessity of forcing Lady Glyde to take proper care of herself.
To my astonishment Mr Dawson showed more presence of mind. He stopped her ladyship at the first step she took towards the bedside. ‘I am sincerely sorry, I am sincerely grieved,' he said. ‘The fever may, I fear, be infectious. until I am certain that it is not, I entreat you to keep out of the room.'
She struggled for a moment, then suddenly dropped her arms and sank forward. She had fainted. The Countess and I took her from the doctor and carried her into her own room. The Count preceded us, and waited in the passage till I came out and told him that we had recovered her from the swoon.
I went back to the doctor to tell him, by Lady Glyde's desire, that she insisted on speaking to him immediately He withdrew at once to quiet her ladyship's agitation, and to assure her of the physician's arrival in the course of a few hours. Those hours passed very slowly. Sir Percival and the Count were together downstairs, and sent up from time to time to make their inquiries. At last, between five and six o'clock, to our great relief, the physician came.
He was a younger man than Mr Dawson, very serious and very decided.
What he thought of the previous treatment I cannot say, but it struck me as curious that he put many more questions to myself and to Mrs Rubelle than he put to the doctor, and that he did not appear to listen with much interest to what Mr Dawson said, while he was examining Mr Dawson's patient.
I began to suspect, from what I observed in this way, that the Count had been right about the illness all the way through, and I was naturally confirmed in that idea when Mr Dawson, after some little delay, asked the one important question which the London doctor had been sent for to set at rest.
‘What is your opinion of the fever?' he inquired.
‘Typhus,' replied the physician. ‘Typhus fever beyond all doubt.'
That quiet foreign person, Mrs Rubelle, crossed her thin brown hands in front of her, and looked at me with a very significant smile. The Count himself could hardly have appeared more gratified if he had been present in the room and had heard the confirmation of his own opinion.
After giving us some useful directions about the management of the patient, and mentioning that he would come again in five days' time, the physician withdrew to consult in private with Mr Dawson. He would offer no opinion on Miss Halcombe's chances of recovery -- he said it was impossible at that stage of the illness to pronounce one way or the other.
The five days passed anxiously.
Countess Fosco and myself took it by turns to relieve Mrs Rubelle, Miss Halcombe's condition growing worse and worse, and requiring our utmost care and attention. It was a terribly trying time. Lady Glyde (supported, as Mr Dawson said, by the constant strain of her suspense on her sister's account) rallied in the most extraordinary manner, and showed a firmness and determination for which I should myself never have given her credit.
She insisted on coming into the sick-room two or three times every day, to look at Miss Halcombe with her own eyes, promising not to go too close to the bed, if the doctor would consent to her wishes so far. Mr Dawson very unwillingly made the concession required of him -- I think he saw that it was hopeless to dispute with her. She came in every day, and she self-denyingly kept her promise. I felt it personally so distressing (as reminding me of my own affliction during my husband's last illness) to see how she suffered under these circumstances, that I must beg not to dwell on this part of the subject any longer. It is more agreeable to me to mention that no fresh disputes took place between Mr Dawson and the Count. His lordship made all his inquiries by deputy, and remained continually in company with Sir Percival downstairs.
On the fifth day the physician came again and gave us a little hope.