William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

walked across to stand in front of them.
    Silently Eglantyne reached out and took Sylvestra’s hand, and Sylvestra clung to it until her knuckles shone white with the pressure.
    “I am sorry, my dear,” he said quietly. “I have to warn you that Rhys is not progressing as well as I would like. As no doubt Miss Latterly will have told you, his outer wounds are healing well. There is no suppuration and certainly no threat of gangrene. But internally we cannot tell. Sometimes there is damage to organs that we have no way of knowing. There is nothing I can do for him except prescribe sedatives to give him as much rest as possible, and bland food that will not cause him pain, and yet will be nourishing and easy to digest.”
    Sylvestra stared up at him, her face stricken.
    “We must wait and hope,” Eglantyne said gently, looking from Sylvestra to her brother and back again. “At least he is no worse, and that in itself is something to be thankful for.”
    Sylvestra attempted to smile, and failed.
    “Why does he not speak?” she pleaded. “You said he had not sustained any injury to make him dumb. What is wrong with him, Corriden? Why has he changed so terribly?”
    He hesitated. He glanced at his sister, then drew in his breath as if to answer, but remained silent.
    “Why?” Sylvestra demanded, her voice rising.
    “I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “I don’t know, and my dear, you must brace yourself for the fact that we may never know. Perhaps he will only recover if he can forget it entirely. Begin life again from now onward. And possibly in time that may happen.” He turned to Hester, his eyes wide in question.
    She could not answer. They were all staring at her, waiting for her to offer some kind of hope. She longed to be able to, and yet if she did, and it proved false, how much harder would it be then? Or was getting through that night and the next day all that mattered at this moment? A step at a time. Don’t attempt the entire journey in one leap of thought. It will be enough to cripple you.
    “That may well be the case,” she agreed aloud. “Time and forgetting may heal his spirit, and his body will follow.”
    Sylvestra relaxed a little, blinking back tears. Surprisingly, even Corriden Wade seemed to be pleased with her answer.
    “Yes, yes.” He nodded slightly. “I think you are very wise, Miss Latterly. And of course you have experience with men who were fearfully injured and who must have seen the most terrible sights. We will do all we can to help him forget.”
    Hester rose to her feet. “I must go up and see if there is anything I can do for him now. Please excuse me.”
    They murmured assent, and she left the room wishing them good-bye and hurried across the hall and up the stairs. She found Rhys lying hunched up in the bed, the sheets tangled, a bowl of bloodstained bandages left by the door, half covered with a cloth. He was shivering, although the blankets were up around his chest and the fire was burning briskly.
    “Shall I change your bed—” she began.
    He glared at her with blazing eyes of such rage she stopped in mid-sentence. He looked so savage she thought he might even attempt to strike at her if she came close enough, and he would damage his broken hands again.
    What had happened? Had Dr. Wade told him how seriously ill he was? Had he suddenly realized there was a possibility he would not get better? Was this rage his way of concealing a pain he could not bear? She had seen such rage before, only too often.
    Or had Dr. Wade examined him and been obliged to hurt him physically in order to look more carefully at his wounds? Were the fury in his eyes and the tearstains on his cheeks from unbearable pain and the humiliation of not having been able to live up to his ideal of courage?
    How could she begin to help him?
    Perhaps fussing was the last thing he wanted at the moment. Maybe even a rumpled bed, stale and uncomfortable, sheets smeared with blood, was better than the interference of somebody who could not share his pain.
    “If you want me, knock the bell,” she said quietly, looking to make sure it was still where his fingers could reach it. It was not there. She glanced around. It was across on the tallboy. Dr. Wade had probably moved it because he had wished to use the bedside table for his instruments or the bowl. She replaced it where it usually sat. “It doesn’t matter what time it is,” she assured him. “I’ll come.”
    He stared at her. He was