Dr. Rumsey's Patient Part 22

"You!" she exclaimed in surprise. "But do you feel well enough?"

"Of course I do, there's nothing the matter with me."

He sprang out of bed, and rushed off to his dressing-room, hastily put on his clothes, and then went out. As he ran quickly downstairs Margaret detected an almost forgotten quality in his steps.

"Why, he is awake again," she cried. "How strange that this trouble about the child should have power to give him back his old vigorous health!"

Rumsey quickly obeyed Awdrey's summons, and before eight o'clock that morning he was bending over the sick child's cot.

It needed but a keen glance and an application of the stethoscope to tell the doctor that there was grave mischief at work.

"It is a pity I was not sent for last night," he said. Then he moved away from the cot, where the bright eyes of the sick baby were fixing him with a too penetrating stare.

He walked across the large nursery. Awdrey followed him.

"The child is very ill," said the doctor.

"What do you mean?" replied Awdrey. "Very ill--do you infer that the child is in danger?"

"Yes, Awdrey, he is undoubtedly in danger. Double pneumonia has set in.

Such a complaint at his tender age cannot but mean very grave danger. I only hope we may pull him through."

"We must pull him through, doctor. Margaret," continued her husband, his face was white as death, "Dr. Rumsey says that the child is in danger."

"Yes," answered Margaret. She was as quiet in her manner as he was excited and troubled. She laid her hand now with great tenderness on his arm. The touch was meant to soothe him, and to a.s.sure him of her sympathy. Then she turned her eyes to fix them on the doctor.

"I know you will do what you can," she said. There was suppressed pa.s.sion in her words.

"Rest a.s.sured I will," he answered.

"Of course," cried Awdrey. "Listen to me, Dr. Rumsey, not a stone must be left unturned to pull the child through. You know what his life means to us--to his mother and me. We cannot possibly spare him--he must be saved. Had we not better get other advice immediately?"

"It is not necessary, but you must please yourselves," answered Rumsey.

"I am not a specialist as regards lung affections, although this case is perfectly straightforward. If you wish to have a specialist I shall be very glad to consult with Edward Cowley."

"What is his address? I'll go for him at once," said Awdrey.

Dr. Rumsey sat down, wrote a short note and gave it to Awdrey, who hurried off with it.

Dr. Rumsey looked at Mrs. Awdrey after her husband had left the room.

"It is marvellous," he said, "what a change for the better this illness has made in your husband's condition."

Her eyes filled slowly with tears.

"Is his health to be won back at such a price?" she asked--she turned once again to the sick child's bed.

"G.o.d grant not," said the doctor--"rest satisfied that what man can do to save him I will do."

"I know that," she replied.

In an hour's time the specialist arrived and the two doctors had their consultation. Certain remedies were prescribed, and Dr. Rumsey hurried away promising to send in two trained nurses immediately. He came back again himself at noon to find the boy, as he expected, much worse. The child was now delirious. All during that long dreadful day the fever rose and rose. The whole aspect of the house in Seymour Street was altered. There were hushed steps, anxious faces, whispered consultations. As the hours flew by the prognostications of the medical men became graver and graver. Margaret gave up hope as the evening approached. She knew that the little life could not long stand the strain of that all-consuming fever. Awdrey alone was full of bustle, excitement, and confidence.

"The child will and must recover," he said to his wife several times.

When the night began Dr. Rumsey resolved not to leave the child.

"A man like Rumsey must save him," cried the father. He forgot all about his own nervous symptoms--he refused even to listen to his wife's words of anxiety.

"Pooh!" he said, "when children are ill they are always very bad. I was at death's door once or twice myself as a child. Children are bad one moment and almost themselves the next. Is not that so, doctor?"

"In some cases," replied the doctor.

"Well, in this case? You think the boy will be all right in the morning--come now, your honest opinion."

"My honest opinion is a grave one, Mr. Awdrey."

Awdrey laughed. There was a wild note in his merriment.

"You and Cowley can't be up to much if between you you can't manage to keep the life in a little mite like that," he said.

"The issues of life and death belong to higher than us," answered the doctor slowly.

Awdrey looked at him again, gave an incredulous smile, and went into the sick-room.

During the entire night the father sat up with the boy. The sick child did not know either parent. His voice grew weaker and weaker--the struggle to breathe became greater. When he had strength to speak, he babbled continually of his playthings, of his walk by the Serpentine the previous day, and the little ships as they sailed on the water.

Presently he took a fancy into his head that he was in one of the tiny ships, and that he was sailing away from sh.o.r.e. He laughed with feeble pleasure, and tried to clap his burning hands. Toward morning his baby notes were scarcely distinguishable. He dozed off for a little, then woke again, and began to talk--he talked now all the time of his father.

"'Ittle boy 'ove dad," he said. "'Ittle Arthur 'oves dad best of anybody--best of all."

Awdrey managed to retain one of the small hands in his. The child quieted down then, gave him a look of long, unutterable love, and about six in the morning, twenty-four hours after the seizure had declared itself, the little spirit pa.s.sed away. Awdrey, who was kneeling by the child's cot, still holding his hand, did not know when this happened.

There was a sudden bustle round the bed, he raised his head with a start, and looked around him.

"What is the matter? Is he better?" he asked. He looked anxiously at the sunken face of the dead child. He noticed that the hurried breathing had ceased.

"Come away with, me, Robert," said his wife.

"Why so?" he asked. "Do you think I will leave the child?"

"Darling, the child is dead."

Awdrey tottered to his feet.

"Dead!" he cried. "You don't mean it--impossible." He bent over the little body, pulled down the bedclothes, and put his hand to the heart, then bending low he listened intently for any breath to come from the parted lips.

"Dead--no, no," he said again.

"My poor fellow, it is too true," said Dr. Rumsey.