‘What is it? Is the medicine wrong?’
I tried to put him off, but his grip tightened till his fingers seemed to reach the bone.
‘The dose is certainly too large; but let me go, I must do something.’
He let me go at once, saying in a voice that made my heart sore for him, ‘He has killed my baby; he has killed my baby.’ And then he cursed the doctor with awful curses, and with a look of such murderous fury on his face that I was glad the doctor was too drunk to appear.
His wife hearing his curses, and understanding the cause, broke out into wailing hard to bear.
‘Ah! mon petit ange! It is dat wheeskey dat’s keel mon baby. Ah! mon cheri, mon amour. Ah! mon Dieu! Ah, Michael, how often I say that wheeskey he’s not good ting.’
It was more than Slavin could bear, and with awful curses he passed out. Mrs. Mavor laid the baby in its crib, for the convulsion had passed away; and putting her arms about the wailing little Frenchwoman, comforted and soothed her as a mother might her child.
‘And you must help your husband,’ I heard her say. ‘He will need you more than ever. Think of him.’
‘Ah oui! I weel,’ was the quick reply, and from that moment there was no more wailing.
It seemed no more than a minute till Slavin came in again, sober, quiet, and steady; the passion was all gone from his face, and only the grief remained.