“No. She looked troubled in her mind, I thought.”
“No other call?”
“Yes. Mary Jones sent word that something was the matter with the baby. It cried nearly all last night, her little boy said, and to-day has fever, and lies in a kind of stupor.”
“That case must be seen to,” I remarked, speaking to myself.
“You might let it go over until morning,” suggested my wife. “At any rate, I would let them send again before going. The child may be better by this time.”
“A call in time may save life here, Constance,” I made answer; the sense of duty growing stronger as the inner and outer man felt the renovating effects of a good supper, and the brightness and warmth of my pleasant home. “And life, you know, is a precious thing—even a baby's life.”
And I turned a meaning glance upon the calm, sweet face of our latest born, as she lay sleeping in her cradle. That was enough. I saw the tears spring instantly to the eyes of my wife.
“I have not a word to say. God forbid, that in the weakness of love and care for you, dear husband, I should draw you aside from duty. Yes—yes! The life of a baby is indeed a precious thing!”
And bending over the cradle, she left a kiss on the lips, and a tear on the pure brow of our darling. Now was I doubly strengthened for the night. There arose at this instant a wild storm-wail, that shrieked for a brief time amid the chimneys, and around the eaves of our dwelling, and then went moaning away, sadly, dying at last in the far distance. The rain beat heavily against the windows. But I did not waver, nor seek for reasons to warrant a neglect of duty. “I must see Mary Jones's baby, and that to-night.” I said this to myself, resolutely, by way of answer to the intimidating storm.
Mrs. Jones was a widow, and poor. She lived full a quarter of a mile away. So in deciding to make the visit that night, I hardly think a very strong element of self-interest was included in the motives that governed me. But that is irrelevant.
“As there is no prospect of an abatement in the storm,” said I, after returning to our cosy little sitting-room, “it may be as well for me to see the baby at once. The visit will be over, so far as I am concerned, and precious time may be gained for the patient.”
“I will tell Joseph to bring around the horse,” said my wife.
“No—I will walk. Poor beast! He has done enough for one day, and shall not be taken out again.”
“Horse-flesh is not so precious as man-flesh,” Constance smiled entreatingly, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder. “Let Tom be harnessed up; it won't hurt him.”
“The merciful man is merciful to his beast,” I made answer. “If horse-flesh is cheaper than man-flesh, like most cheap articles, it is less enduring. Tom must rest, if his master cannot.”
“The decision is final, I suppose.”
“I must say yes.”
“I hardly think your great coat is dry yet,” said my wife. “I had it hung before the kitchen fire. Let me see.”
“You must wait for ten, or fifteen minutes longer,” she remarked, on returning from the kitchen. “One sleeve was completely wetted through, and I have turned it in order to get the lining dry.”
I sat down and took Agnes on my lap, and was just getting into a pleasant talk with her, when the door-bell rung. A shadow fell across my wife's face.
“People are thoughtless of Doctors,” she remarked, a little fretfully, “and often choose the worst weather and the most untimely seasons to send for them.”
I did not answer, but listened as the boy went to the door. Some one was admitted, and shown into the office.
“Who is it?” I enquired, as Joseph came to the sitting-room.
“Mrs. Wallingford.”
My wife and I exchanged glances. She looking grave and curious; but no remark was made.
“Good-evening, Mrs. Wallingford,” said I, on entering my office. “This is a very bad night for a lady to come out. I hope no one is seriously ill.”
“I wish you would come over and see our Henry, Doctor.”
There was a choking tremor in her voice; and as I looked in her face, I saw that it was pale and distressed.
“What's the matter?” I inquired.
“I can't say what it is, Doctor. Something's wrong. I'm afraid—yes, I'm afraid he's going out of his senses.”
And she wrung her hands together with a nervous uneasiness in singular contrast with her usual quiet exterior.
“How is he affected?”
“Well, Doctor, he came home last evening looking as white as a sheet. I almost screamed out when I saw the strange, suffering expression on his colorless face. My first thought was that he had fallen somewhere, and been hurt dreadfully. He tried to pass me without stopping; but I put both hands on him, and said—'Oh, Henry! what does ail you?' 'Nothing of any account,' he answered, in a low, husky tone. 'I don't feel right well, and am going to my room to lie down.' And saying this, he brushed right past me, and went up stairs. I followed after him, but when I tried his door it was fastened on the inside. I called three times before he answered, and then he said—'Mother, I'm not sick; but I feel bad and want to be alone. Please don't disturb me to-night.' I don't think I would have known the voice if it hadn't been just then and there. Knowing his disposition, anxious and troubled as I was, I felt that it would be best for the time being to let him alone. And I did so. For an hour or more all in his room was as still as death, and I began to grow very uneasy. Then I heard his feet upon the floor moving about. I heard him walk to his bureau—my ears served me for eyes—then to the mantlepiece, and then to the window. All was still again for some minutes. My heart beat like a hammer, as one vague suggestion after another floated through my mind. Then he crossed the room with a slow step; turned and went back again; and so kept on walking to and fro. I listened, waiting for the sound to cease; nut he walked on and on, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, tramp, tramp, tramp, until it seemed as if every jarring footfall was on my heart. Oh, Doctor! I never had anything to affect me so before in my whole life. An hour passed, and still he walked the floor of his room. I could bear it no longer, and went and called to him. But he seemed deaf, and made no reply. I rattled at the lock and called again and again. Then he came close to the door, and said, speaking a little impatiently for him—
'Mother! Mother! For Heaven's sake don't trouble me! I don't feel just right, and you must let me alone for the present.'
“Well, he kept on walking for an hour longer, and then everything was still in his room for the night. This morning on trying his door it was unfastened. I went in. He was lying in bed wide awake. But, oh! such a change as I saw in his face. It was colorless as on the evening before; but less expressive of emotion. A dead calm seemed to have settled upon it. I took his hand; it was cold. I pressed his forehead; it was cold also. 'Henry, my son, how are you?' I asked. He did not reply; but looked in my face with a cold, steady gaze that chilled me. 'Are you sick, my son?' He merely shook his head slowly. 'Has anything happened? What has happened?' I pressed my question upon him; but it was of no use. He would not satisfy me. I then asked if he would not rise. 'Not yet,' he said. 'Shall I bring you some breakfast?' 'No—no—I cannot eat.' And he shook his head and shut his eyes, while there came into his face a look so sad and suffering that as I gazed on him I could not keep the tears back.
“And it has been no better with him all the day, Doctor,” added Mrs. Wallingford, heaving a long sigh. “Oh, I am distressed to death about it. Won't you come and see him? I'm afraid if something isn't done that he will lose his senses.”
“Have you no conjecture as to the cause of this strange condition of mind?” I asked.
“None,” she replied. “Henry