“Allow me to ask, Mrs. Marston,” Doctor Turner resumed, after a minute of silence, “is your husband still living?”
The woman flushed, a startled, painful crimson, to her brow; then she straightened herself haughtily.
“Yes, my husband is living,” she icily replied.
“And, excuse me, but having been your medical attendant, I feel something of an interest in the case—how was he affected by the—the loss of his child?”
Doctor Turner knew that he was trespassing on dangerous ground, but, under the circumstances, he felt that he might be pardoned for asking the question.
“I do not feel that you have a right to interrogate me thus,” Mrs. Marston responded, with some excitement, “nevertheless, I am somewhat in your power, and——”
“Madame,” interrupted the physician, with an air of pride, “you need not go on; if a little bit of your life is in my keeping, I assure you it is in the keeping of a conscientious man. Whatever I may possess regarding any patient, I could never use it in a dishonorable way.”
“I beg your pardon,” his companion said, instantly disarmed and secretly ashamed of her sudden anger. “I am very quick, and you touched a sensitive nerve. Doctor Turner, my husband never knew of the birth of that child, and he can never know of it.
“You look at me with horror,” she proceeded hastily, as she met his astonished gaze, “as if you imagine that I must have been guilty of some great crime; but I have not, unless giving away my babe was one. I was a lawful wife, as I convinced you at the time, and the child had honorable birth; but there were reasons which made it absolutely necessary that I should conceal my maternity from every one who knew me. I did, from all but my sister, who has since died.”
“Ah! then the lady who was with you at the time was your sister. I could not believe her to be simply a maid,” the doctor interposed.