but Dr. Danvers is inclined to look upon it more seriously than the French doctor. He declared that Julian's brain must have been frightfully overworked within the last few years; and when I told him that my husband's life had, to my knowledge, been one of rest and tranquil monotony, I could see by his face that he did not believe me."
"Mr. Wyllard is better, I hope, since the morning."
"Yes, he is much better. There is still a feeling of heaviness and dull pain; but he is so patient, he will hardly confess he is in pain, though I can see from his face that he suffers."
The tears rushed to her eyes, and she walked hastily to the window, where she stood for a few minutes holding her handkerchief before her face, with her back to Heathcote, who waited silently, knowing the uselessness of all consolatory speeches at such a time.
She conquered herself, and came back to her seat presently.
"Struck down in the prime of his manhood, in all the force of his intellect," she said. "It is a deathblow."
"Your English doctor may exaggerate the danger."
"God grant that it is so. I have telegraphed to Sir William Spencer, entreating him to come to Paris by to-night's mail. The question of cost is nothing; but I fear he may not be able to leave his practice so long—or he may be away from London."
"When did you telegraph?"
"An hour ago. I am expecting the answer at any moment. I hope he will come."
"What is it this Dr. Danvers apprehends?"
"He fears an affection of the spinal marrow, a slow and lingering malady, full of pain. O, it is too dreadful!" cried the agonised wife, clasping her hands in a paroxysm of despair. "What has he done to be so afflicted? how has he deserved such suffering, he who worked so hard, and denied himself all pleasures in his youth—he who has been so good and generous to others? Why should he be tortured?"
"Dear Mrs. Wyllard, pray do not give way to grief. The doctor may be mistaken. He ought not to have told you so much."
"It was right of him to tell me. I begged him to keep nothing from me—not to treat me as a child. If there is a martyrdom to be borne, I will bear my part of it. Yes, I will suffer with him, pang for pang, for to see him in pain will be as sharp an agony for me as the actual torture can be for him. He is resting now, dozing from the effect of the morphia which they have injected under the skin."
"I trust if Sir William Spencer come that he will be able to give you a more hopeful opinion."
"Yes, I am putting my trust in that. But I am full of fear.
