“Oh, my darling Maurice!” she cried almost frantically, “don’t die, don’t leave me! you are all I have in the world!” looking at him with distracted eyes and wringing her small thin hands. “If you are taken I will go with you. I won’t, no, I won’t live without you!”
“Alice, Alice!” remonstrated her husband; “think of what you are saying.”
Suddenly rising, she took the child up in her arms and carried him to the window.
“At least he shall die in my arms,” she said. “Yes, he shall!” she exclaimed excitedly.
“But he is not dying now,” said Sir Reginald. “Give him to me for a little; he is much too heavy for you. Remember, whilst there’s life there’s hope.”
“No—no—no! Do not take him from me for the little time he may be left. Oh, my own darling, how you are suffering! If I could only bear it for you; if I might only die in your stead!” she moaned, rocking the boy in her arms. “How glad I am that they say I am so weak and delicate; I will soon follow you, my treasure.”
Sir Reginald, leaning against the window-shutter, listened to his half-distracted wife in silence.
“I know you think that I am wicked, that I am insane,” continued Alice; “but if he dies I will die too; it will kill me.” And she turned on him a look akin to madness and despair.
“Alice, am I nothing to you, then?”
“You! You are only the shadow of my husband. No; you are nothing to me; you said so yourself,” she murmured as she kissed her boy’s hands convulsively.