“Do, and don’t be long,” she answered.
In a few minutes he had returned with the book, over which they pored together—the barrier between them was completely broken down for the time being by this common anxiety. Alice found herself ordering him hither and thither as if he were Geoffrey. None of the remedies suggested were of any use, as there was no medicine-chest in the house, and a mustard plaster and hot bath had been already tried in vain.
Reginald lifted the child from Alice’s arms and laid him in his bed, saying that he would have more air.
Presently the nurse returned, and, standing at the foot of the cot, surveyed the little patient critically. Whilst Alice was bending over him, she approached her master and whispered in his ear:
“It is all over with him; another fit like the last and he will choke; he can’t live above a quarter of an hour.”
“In that case you had better leave me alone with Lady Fairfax; but bring the doctor the instant he comes.”
“But I’d better stay, sir; I had, indeed.”
“No—no,” he returned impatiently, “go—go at once. You can be of no use here.”
This whispered conversation was unnoticed by Alice, who was bending over Maurice, fanning him. With watch in hand, Sir Reginald stood at one side of the child, whilst his wife knelt at the other. Maurice seemed weaker and weaker.
Alice looked at her husband and read in his face that he shared her worst fears. Her child was dying. She leant over her boy in an agony of tearless grief.