CHAPTER XII.

A Surrender.

JOHN BERNARD entered the room where his wife lay, having at last consented to take a little repose. She was on the couch by the window. There was bright sunshine outside; but the venetians were closed, making a pleasant twilight in the room. She still wore the handsome silken gown in which she had dined and gone forth to view the Coliseum by moonlight. She had lain down, intending only to rest for half an hour; but sleep had stolen upon her, and she had been sleeping for more than two hours. She was still pale, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes; but her look was peaceful, and her husband felt as he gazed down on her that she had lost none of her beauty or her charm. Thankful to find her sleeping, he was about to steal away when she opened her eyes. For a moment they met his in bewilderment; then her colour rose and she sat up.

"Paul," she said quickly, "how is he?"

"He is going on all right," said her husband cheerfully. "A rash has appeared which leaves the doctor no longer any doubt as to his malady. It is scarlet fever."

She shuddered. "Scarlet fever! That is terrible."

"It might be worse, dearest. I think the doctor is relieved to find that it is scarlet fever. There is every reason to hope that the disease will follow a normal course, and the child make a good recovery."

"God grant it!" murmured Mrs. Bernard, as she rose and hastily crossed the room.

Her husband laid his hand on her arm as she was about to open the door. "Stay a moment, Clarice. I have something to say to you."

She looked up at him inquiringly, her hand still on the door.

"Janet is with him now, you know," said Mr. Bernard. "She says she has had the fever, and has not the least fear of infection."

"Nor have I," said Mrs. Bernard quickly. "If that is all—" and she turned the handle.

"It is not all," said her husband. "Of course, I knew you would be fearless; but, dear, I want you to think of our boy's best interests. The doctor and I have agreed that it would be most unwise to suffer you to run any risk of infection."

Mrs. Bernard turned on him with a flash of defiance in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "You cannot suppose that I am not going to nurse Paul myself. It is my right as his mother."

"Then, dearest, I will ask you to forego that right for his sake and mine," said Mr. Bernard; "Paul cannot afford to lose his mother, nor can I afford to lose my wife."

Clarice Bernard stood motionless. The word wife thrilled her with the memory of their recent reconciliation, and the joy which had come in the midst of sorrow and dread. Were their wills clashing already?

"I do not see why you need imagine such a thing," she said; "I am not at all likely to take the fever."

"We cannot tell that," said Mr. Bernard, "and I do not think you ought to run the risk. Janet is perfectly able to nurse him, and I shall be at hand to help her."

"If I ought not to run the risk, you ought not," she said.

"It is not an equal risk for me," he said; "I am older, and I shall take every precaution. There is less fear for me, indeed."

"I cannot see that," she said. "You look anything but strong."

"I am stronger than I look," he replied. "Dearest, I am persuaded that all will go well, if you will only do as I wish. The doctor says you may return to your hotel now without any fear of carrying infection. I will arrange to meet you every day and tell you all about Paul, then as soon as it is safe, we will go into the country together."

Mrs. Bernard stood motionless. Her hand had dropped from the door. When at last she spoke, her voice had an unnatural sound.

"You are asking a very hard thing of me," she said.

"I know I am," he replied tenderly. "It seems cruel to ask it, but I believe it will be for Paul's real good, and he and I will both thank you ere long for the sacrifice you have made."

"I can make it upon one condition only," she said after a moment.

"What is that?" he asked.

"That if Paul should be very ill," her voice quivered painfully as she spoke; "if there should be danger, you will let me see him before—" She could not finish, but her husband understood.

"Yes, yes," he said, and his own voice was husky, "I promise you that; you may trust me."

She turned with a sob, and taking up her hat, which lay on a chair, put it on.

"I had better go at once, ere my courage fails," she said.

"God bless you, my darling!" said her husband. "It grieves me to send you away thus, but I am sure it is the best thing for us all."

She looked at him shyly through her tears.

"You have conquered me," she said softly. "It was not—it was not for Paul's sake only that I gave in. Give me another promise—that you will take care of my husband for me, as well as of my child."

The happy smile with which he answered her made her heart glad in spite of all.