第172章

"I forgot it, then; I meant to do so. What is the time?" He looked at his watch: ten minutes to four. "Did the doctor say at what hour he should call?" Mr. Carlyle added to Madame Vine.

"Not precisely. I gathered that it would be very early in the afternoon."

"Here he is!" exclaimed Mr. Carlyle with alacrity, as he went into the hall. She supposed he alluded to the physician--supposed he had seen him pass the window. Their entrance together woke up William.

"Well," said the doctor, who was a little man with a bald head, "and how fares it with my young patient? /Bon jour/ madame."

"/Bon jour/, monsieur," responded she. She wished everybody would address her in French, and take her for French; there seemed less chance of recognition. She would have to speak in good plain English, however, if she must carry on conversation with the doctor. Beyond a familiar phrase or two, he was something like Justice Hare--/Nong parley Fronsay/ me!

"And how does the cod-liver oil get on?" asked the doctor of William, as he drew him to the light. "It is nicer now than it used to be, eh?"

"No," said William; "it is nastier than ever."

Dr. Martin looked at the boy; felt his pulse, his skin, listened to his breathing. "There," said he, presently, "you may sit down and have your nap out."

"I wish I might have something to drink; I am very thirsty. May I ring for some water, papa?"

"Go and find your aunt's maid, and ask her for some," said Mr. Carlyle.

"Ask her for milk," called out Dr. Martin. "Not water."

Away went William. Mr. Carlyle was leaning against the side of the window; Dr. Martin folded his arms before it: Lady Isabel stood near the latter. The broad, full light was cast upon all, but the thick veil hid Lady Isabel's face. It was not often she could be caught without that veil, for she seemed to wear her bonnet at all sorts of seasonable and unseasonable times.

"What is your opinion, doctor?" asked Mr. Carlyle.

"Well," began the doctor, in a /very/ professional tone, "the boy is certainly delicate. But--"

"Stay, Dr. Martin," was the interruption, spoken in a low, impressive voice, "you will deal candidly with me. I must know the truth, without disguise. Tell it me freely."

Dr. Martin paused. "The truth is not always palatable, Mr. Carlyle."

"True. But for that very reason, all the more necessary. Let me hear the worst. And the child has no mother, you know, to be shocked with it."

"I fear that it will be the worst."

"Death?"

"Ay. The seeds of consumption must have been inherent in him. They are showing out too palpably."

"Is there /no/ hope for the child?"

Dr. Martin looked at him. "You bade me give you the truth."

"Nothing else; nothing but the truth," returned Mr. Carlyle, his tone one of mingled pain and command.

"Then, there is none; no hope whatever. The lungs are extensively diseased."

"And how long--"

"That I cannot say," interrupted the doctor, divining what the next question was to be. "He may linger on for months; for a year, it may even be; or a very short period may see the termination. Don't worry him with any more lessons and stuff of learning; he'll never want it."

The doctor cast his eyes on the governess as he spoke; the injunction concerned her as much as it did Mr. Carlyle. And the doctor started, for he thought she was fainting; her face had become so ghastly white; he could see it through her veil.

"You are ill, madame! You are ill? /Trouve malade/, don't you?"

She opened her lips to speak; her trembling lips, that would not obey her. Dr. Martin, in his concern, pulled off the blue spectacles. She caught them from him with one hand, sat down on the nearest chair, and hid her face with the other.

Mr. Carlyle, scarcely understanding the scuffle, came forward. "Are you ill, Madame Vine?"

She was putting her spectacles under her veil, her face whiter than ever. "Pray do not interrupt your conversation to pay attention to me!

I thank you; I thank you both. I am subject to--slight spasms, and they do make me look ill for the moment. It has passed now."

The doctor turned from her; Mr. Carlyle resumed his place by the window. "What should be the treatment?" asked the latter.

"Almost anything you please--that the boy himself likes. Let him play or rest, ride or walk, eat and drink, or let it alone; it cannot make much difference."

"Doctor! You yield it, as a last hope, very lightly."

Dr. Martin shook his head. "I speak as I /know/. You insisted on having my true opinion."

"A warmer climate?" suggested Mr. Carlyle eagerly, the idea crossing his mind.

"It might prolong the end for a little while--a few weeks, perhaps--avert it it could not. And who could take him? You could not go; and he has no mother. No! I should not advise it."

"I wish you would see Wainwright--with reference to William."

"I have seen him. I met him this afternoon, by chance, and told him my opinion. How is Mrs. Carlyle?"

"Pretty well. She is not in robust health, you are aware, just now."

Dr. Martin smiled. "These things will happen. Mrs. Carlyle has a thoroughly good constitution; a far stronger one than--than----"

"Than what?" said Mr. Carlyle, wondering why he hesitated.

"You must grant me pardon. I may as well finish, now I have begun; but I was not thinking when I spoke. She is stronger than was Lady Isabel.

I must be off to catch the six train."

"You will come over from time to time to East Lynne to see William?"

"If you wish it. It may be a satisfaction, perhaps. /Bon jour/, madame."

Lady Isabel bowed to him as he left the room with Mr. Carlyle. "How fond that French governess of yours is of the boy!" the doctor whispered, as they crossed the hall. "I detected it when she brought him to Lynneborough. And you saw her just now! That emotion was all because he could not live. Good-bye."