‘Oh, my old habit; you remember. One cold after another, all through the accursed winter. What does that matter when you speak kindly to me once more? I had rather die now at your feet and see the old gentleness when you look at me, than live on estranged from you. No, don’t kiss me, I believe these vile sore-throats are contagious.’
‘But your lips are so hot and parched! And to think of your coming this journey, on such a night!’
‘Good old Biffen came to the station with me. He was angry because I had kept away from you so long. Have you given me your heart again, Amy?’
‘Oh, it has all been a wretched mistake! But we were so poor. Now all that is over; if only Willie can be saved to me! I am so anxious for the doctor’s coming; the poor little child can hardly draw a breath. How cruel it is that such suffering should come upon a little creature who has never done or thought ill!’
‘You are not the first, dearest, who has revolted against nature’s cruelty.’
‘Let us go up at once, Edwin. Leave your coat and things here. Mrs Winter—Edith’s mother—is a very old lady; she has gone to bed. And I dare say you wouldn’t care to see Mrs Carter to-night?’
‘No, no! only you and Willie.’
‘When the doctor comes hadn’t you better ask his advice for yourself?’
‘We shall see. Don’t trouble about me.’
They went softly up to the first floor, and entered a bedroom. Fortunately the light here was very dim, or the nurse who sat by the child’s bed must have wondered at the eccentricity with which her patient’s father attired himself. Bending over the little sufferer, Reardon felt for the first time since Willie’s birth a strong fatherly emotion; tears rushed to his eyes, and he almost crushed Amy’s hand as he held it during the spasm of his intense feeling.
He sat here for a long time without speaking. The warmth of the chamber had the reverse of an assuaging effect upon his difficult breathing and his frequent short cough—it seemed to oppress and confuse his brain. He began to feel a pain in his right side, and could not sit upright on the chair.
Amy kept regarding him, without his being aware of it.
‘Does your head ache?’ she whispered.
He nodded, but did not speak.
‘Oh, why doesn’t the doctor come? I must send in a few minutes.’
But as soon as she had spoken a bell rang in the lower part of the house. Amy had no doubt that it announced the promised visit.
She left the room, and in a minute or two returned with the medical man. When the examination of the child was over, Reardon requested a few words with the doctor in the room downstairs.
‘I’ll come back to you,’ he whispered to Amy.
The two descended together, and entered the drawing-room.
‘Is there any hope for the little fellow?’ Reardon asked.
Yes, there was hope; a favourable turn might be expected.
‘Now I wish to trouble you for a moment on my own account. I shouldn’t be surprised if you tell me that I have congestion of the lungs.’
The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his interlocutor with curiosity. He now asked the necessary questions, and made an examination.
‘Have you had any lung trouble before this?’ he inquired gravely.
‘Slight congestion of the right lung not many weeks ago.’
‘I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your symptoms to go so far without—’
‘I have just come down from London,’ interrupted Reardon.
‘Tut, tut, tut! To bed this moment, my dear sir! There is inflammation, and—’
‘I can’t have a bed in this house; there is no spare room. I must go to the nearest hotel.’
‘Positively? Then let me take you. My carriage is at the door.’
‘One thing—I beg you won’t tell my wife that this is serious. Wait till she is out of her anxiety about the child.’
‘You will need the services of a nurse. A most unfortunate thing that you are obliged to go to the hotel.’
‘It can’t be helped. If a nurse is necessary, I must engage one.’
He had the strange sensation of knowing that whatever was needful could be paid for; it relieved his mind immensely. To the rich, illness has none of the worst horrors only understood by the poor.
‘Don’t speak a word more than you can help,’ said the doctor as he watched Reardon withdraw.
Amy stood on the lower stairs, and came down as soon as her husband showed himself.
‘The doctor is good enough to take me in his carriage,’ he whispered. ‘It is better that I should go to bed, and get a good night’s rest. I wish I could have sat with you, Amy.’
‘Is it anything? You look worse than when you came, Edwin.’
‘A feverish cold. Don’t give it a thought, dearest. Go to Willie. Goodnight!’
