They all recoiled; the father turned fiercely round on the nurse, with a violent exclamation, but Dr. May checked him. “Hush! This is no presence for the wrath of man.” The solemn tone seemed to make George shrink into an awestruck quiescence; he stood motionless and transfixed, as if indeed conscious of some overwhelming presence.
Flora had come near, with an imploring gesture, to take the child in her own arms; but Dr. May, by a look of authority, prevented it; for, indeed, it would have been harassing and distressing the poor little sufferer again to move her, as she lay with feeble gasps on his arm.
So they remained, for what space no one knew—not one word was uttered, not a limb moved, and the street noises sounded far off.
Dr. May stooped his head closer to the babe’s face, and seemed listening for a breath, as he once more touched the little wrist; he took away his finger, he ceased to listen, he looked up.
Flora gave one cry—not loud, not sharp, but “an exceeding bitter cry”—she would have moved forward, but reeled, and her husband’s arms supported her as she sank into a swoon.
“Carry her to her room,” said Dr. May. “I will come;” and, when George had borne her away, he kissed the lifeless cheek, and reverently placed the little corpse in the cradle; but, as he rose from doing so, the sobbing nurse exclaimed, “Oh, sir! oh, sir! indeed, I never did—”
“Never did what?” said Dr. May sternly.
“I never gave the dear baby anything to do her harm,” cried Preston vehemently.
“You gave her this,” said Dr. May, pointing to the bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial.
He could say no more, for her master was hurrying back into the room. Anger was the first emotion that possessed him, and he hardly gave an answer to Dr. May’s question about Flora. “Meta is with her! Where is that woman? Have you given her up to the police?”