“I know that I am nothing to you but the shadow of a husband. Deeply as you have injured me, what else could I be? But consider me now—for the next few hours at least—the husband I would have been to you, and let me comfort you, my dearest. If your child is taken, who can share your grief like me—his father? and if he is spared—as I sincerely trust he will be—who can so deeply feel the happiness of having him restored? His pulse is still pretty strong,” he added, taking the child’s little hand in his. “The doctor will be here in five minutes. Do not give up all hope yet, my poor Alice.”
“Oh Reginald,” she said gratefully, “you have lifted a little of the load off my heart; you have comforted me already.”
At this instant the door opened, and the doctor and nurse came into the room; the former bustled over to the side of Maurice’s cot.
“Ah-h!” said he. He always prefaced his remarks with a long breath, as if he had just swallowed something delicious. “I’m in time, after all, I see! Bring him here to the table, Lady Fairfax, and I’ll give him a dose that will cure him in no time. Don’t look so frightened, my dear young lady.”
White as her dressing-gown, her long hair hanging in a thick loose plait far below her waist, she rose and gave her boy into the doctor’s hands. He administered a remedy that had an almost instantaneous effect, and, within a quarter of an hour, Maurice lay in his little cot sound asleep.
The doctor, an elderly, eccentric, and extremely clever man, after staring at Sir Reginald for some seconds, said brusquely:
“And who is this young gentleman who has dropped the medicine so accurately and been so useful?”
“He is my husband, Dr. Barton.”
“Ah-h! I thought so, from the likeness to the boy; but you told me your husband was in India! By what conjuring trick is he here to-night?”
“No conjuring trick beyond a medical board,” replied Sir Reginald coolly.