“You’ll come again?” said Desmond hoarsely.
“I will be round again in the morning.”
Desmond, white faced, his hands twitching convulsively, stood on guard outside his wife’s room. The ordeal was terrible, and the perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead. Once he heard a tiny cry, then stillness. He dared not knock—there was a nurse behind that closed door, and he knew he could trust her. Still—.
A hand touched him. “Go to bed, Desmond, and try to get a little sleep.” It was Alan. “I’ll watch for you, and I’ll give you my word I’ll call you if you’re wanted.”
“No, no, Alan. I’ll stay here. If she wants me, I want to be near.”
So the hours wore on, and no sound came from the sick-room. Dr. Angus motored up, and without a word disappeared within. An hour later he came out and saw Desmond’s haggard face.
“You may go in for two minutes only,” said he. “Both your wife and son will live.”
It was a white-faced Mavis who greeted him. Her face was lined with pain; her hazel eyes were sunk deep into her head. In her arms she held a bundle, a little bundle that was everything to the man and woman beside it. “Dear, he’s like you,” whispered Mavis weakly, and then, with an almost roguish smile, “I said it would be a boy.” Her eyes closed, and with her husband’s hand in hers, she gave a contented sigh and fell asleep.
“Whew!” said Sir John, a few days later. “I wouldn’t go through last week again for a king’s ransom.”
“Thank God she has pulled through,” said Alan fervently. The two men were sitting at breakfast, the first square meal they had had for a week.