“Well, is he better?” he asked eagerly.
“No, sir; but worse! How long will it be before the doctor comes?”
“An hour, at the least,” replied Sir Reginald.
“An hour’s the very most he will last, poor lamb.”
“Is he so very bad as all that?” inquired her master, turning deadly pale.
“Very bad. He could not be worse! Will you please to stay with my lady whilst I am away—if anything do happen to the child, she’ll go clean out of her mind, for certain—it’s a terrible pity Mrs. Mayhew is away, and Miss Saville is no more use than a child herself.”
“Shall I have her called? Surely she has some experience.”
“No, sir; the fewer people in the nursery the better; and I’m afraid that all the experience in the country could not save the child now—he’s desperate bad.” So saying, this Job’s comforter continued her way downstairs, leaving Sir Reginald to take her place with his wife. He stood for a moment to collect his thoughts, and then quickly ascended to the nursery, where he found the child on Alice’s lap, fighting and gasping for breath—a most heartrending sight. His mother, perfectly collected so far, but as white as marble, was soothing him with such soft endearments and caresses as only a mother knows.
When her husband entered, she raised her sweet pathetic eyes to his, as if in mute entreaty for help for her child.
“I wish I knew something to suggest, Alice,” he said, coming over to the table, near which she was sitting; “I am a capital nurse if it were typhoid fever or broken bones; but I know nothing about children. There is an old book on household medicine in the library, we might find some hints in it. Shall I fetch it?”