Part 17 (2/2)

”She is fairly worn out.”

”I am glad Julia is there.”

”Yes, I should not feel easy unless she were. But Talbot himself behaved very well. He is more of a hand with the boy than the mother is. He seems bound up in him.”

”Poor fellow!” said Lucy, sympathetically. Her husband did not respond.

”You had better go to bed, dear, and get some sleep,” she went on. ”You must need it.”

”I told Julia I would be there before six,” said Dr. Wilson, rising.

”She must get some rest then. So if you'll wake me at five--”

”Of course,” said Lucy, who was as certain and much more agreeable than an alarm clock; ”and now go to sleep, and forget it all. You have had a hard day, you poor fellow!”

The doctor threw his arm round his wife, as she nestled closer to him, and they turned with a common impulse to the next room, where there own only child lay sleeping. Father and mother stood long without a word, looking at the bright-haired boy, whose healthy breathing came and went without a sound or a quiver; but when the mother turned to go, the father lingered still. She did not wait for him, for her exquisite tact could allow for shyness in a husband as well as in anyone else, and she had no manner of jealousy of it. If he wanted to say his prayers, or shed a few tears, or go through any other such sentimental performance which he would feel ashamed to have her witness, why, by all means let him have the chance; and she kept on diligently brus.h.i.+ng her rich, dark hair, that he might not find her waiting.

There was no dramatic scene when little Eugene Talbot was declared out of danger; it came gradually as blessings are apt to do; but after Dr.

Wilson had informed his wife day after day for a week that the child was ”no worse,” he began to report him as ”a little better,” and finally somewhat grudgingly to allow that with care there was no reason why he should not recover. By early springtime the little fellow was playing about in the sun and air; his sisters had been sent home all well and blooming, with many a gift from Mrs. Wilson, and their wardrobes bearing everywhere traces of her dainty handiwork; the mother had overflowed in tearful thanks, and the father had struggled to speak his in vain.

”I wish I knew how small I could decently make Talbot's fee,” said Dr.

Wilson, as he sat at his desk, in a half-soliloquising tone, but still designed to catch his wife's ear, and win her judicious advice.

But it was not till after he had repeated the words, that she said without raising her head from her work, while her fingers ran nervously on, ”I will tell you what I should do.”

”Well?” as she paused.

”I should make out my bill for the usual amount, and send it in receipted. Won't you, Henry? I wish you would, so very, very much!” she went on, surprised at the dawning of a look she had never seen before on his face.

”That would be hardly treating him like a gentleman,” he began; and then suddenly, ”Lucy, how can you keep up such a grudge against Eugene Talbot?”

Lucy's work dropped, and she sat looking full at him, her pretty face white as ashes, and her eyes dilated as if she had heard a voice from the grave.

”I know,” he resumed, ”that he has injured you on the tenderest point on which a man can injure a woman, but surely you should have got over thinking of that by this time. Is it n.o.ble, is it Christian to bear malice so long? Can't you be satisfied without crowding down the coals of fire so very hard upon his head? I never,” went on Dr. Wilson, reflectively, ”did like that pa.s.sage, though it is in the Bible.”

”Oh, Henry!”

”Put it on a lower ground. Is it just to me? Do you owe me nothing? I don't forget how much I owe you. You have made the better part of what little reputation I have; you are proud of it; you would like to have me more so. But do you suppose I can feel pride in anything earthly, while another man has the power so to move my wife? You may think you do not love him now; but where you make a parade of forgiveness, resentment lingers; and where revenge is hot, love is still warm.”

”Then you knew it all?” gasped Lucy; ”but how--how could you ever want to marry me?”

”Because, my dear, I loved you--all the time--too well not to be thankful to get you on any terms. I gave you credit for too much good sense and high principle to let yourself care for him when you were once married; and--I am but a poor creature, G.o.d knows! but I hoped I could win your love in time. There, my dear, don't! I knew I could! I am very sure I did.”

He raised her head from where she had buried it among the sofa pillows, and let her weep out a flood of the bitterest tears she had ever shed, on his shoulder. It was long before she could check them enough to murmur, ”Forgive me--only forgive me!”

”Dearest, we will both of us forget it.”

<script>