The Doctor laughed, poured her out with his own hands a sleeping-draught, and sat patiently beside her till she slept, then stole away, leaving injunctions with the nurse, established in his absence, to telephone if there came a crisis—“even,” after a moment’s hesitation, “in the night.”
“Home!”—he gave the order briefly. There were black circles beneath his eyes, making him look thinner than when he left the house that morning; he had no distinct reminiscence of lunch, and he was very tired; but his shoulders no longer ached, his headache was gone, and his hands were perfectly steady.
Odd bits of music hummed perversely through his head, mixing themselves up with all things and rippling the air about him into their own large waves, bearing now and then upon them, like the insistent iteration of an oratorio chorus, fantastic fragments—“If Thou hadst been here!—If Thou hadst been here!” His fingers ached towards the responsive strings, and pulling out his watch, he made a hasty calculation. There should be good fifteen minutes, he decided—toilet allowed for—and he hurried the coachman again and leaned forward, looking with bright, eager eyes into the night, and humming to himself.
One liveried servant opened the house door, another the carriage door, and a third relieved him of his hat and coat. Out of the warmth and brightness his wife advanced to meet him, a child in either hand, their long curls brushed and tied with bright ribbons. Her face was filled with tender solicitude.
“You must be worn out;—what a long day you have made! Would you like the dinner sent in at once, or would you rather wait? Children, don’t hang so on papa; he must be dreadfully tired. Oh, and there’s a man been waiting over an hour; he simply wouldn’t go; but you’ll let him come back to-morrow?—you won’t try to see any one else tonight?”
The Doctor hesitated a moment, letting all the warmth and brightness sink into him, while his hands played with the soft hair of his little son and daughter. He smiled at his wife, a bright, tired smile.
“Robin,” he said, “run down to the carriage; there are some posies there for mamma—from Miss Graham, Louise,—you see I did get a moment’s rest.”
“Yes,” said his wife. She continued to gaze compassionately at the tired man. After a moment she repeated gently, “And the dinner, dear—?”
“No,—don’t wait for me; I’ll not be long. Have it brought in at once, and—send the man into the office, please.”
He stooped and kissed the children, and turning away, went into his office and closed the door behind him.