"Oh, doctor!" cried Mrs. Desmond, trying to calm herself, "tell me at once what is the matter. I had no idea he was ill."
"No; but your little girl had. I met her on the stairs and she begged me to see her father."
"Helen!"
The word escaped from Mrs. Desmond almost involuntarily. She turned very white, and rose immediately to find pen and ink as desired. "What a cold, impassive woman!" thought the doctor as he watched her deliberate movements. How could he guess the storm that was raging in her heart, the bitterness against Helen that was poisoning her whole nature. And yet here Helen had been right and she had been wrong. It had seemed sometimes to her lately in her distorted mind as though her hitherto tranquil existence were resolving itself into an ignoble struggle between this insignificant child and herself for Colonel Desmond's affection, a love that, as husband and father, she failed to understand could have been given to them both in full measure. Since the night when she had realized how deep a hold Helen had on her father's affections, her own feelings towards her husband had suffered a change. Accustomed for many years, by reason of her wealth and a certain charm which she possessed, to be treated as a person of the first consideration in her own circle, she could not brook the idea that a chit like Helen should, as she chose to phrase it, rival her in her husband's love.
And now Helen's quick eyes had caught what hers had failed to see. Were they both going to lose him? Was it a judgment?
Not a hint of what was passing in her mind betrayed itself in Mrs. Desmond's face as she waited until the doctor had finished writing, and then said:
"You have not yet told me what it is that is the matter with my husband?"
"My dear madam, it is extremely difficult to say off-hand. He is in a high state of fever. Looks like rheumatic fever at present. Has he had a sudden chill?"
"A chill?"
"Yes; a sudden exposure of any kind?"