Herminia’s alarm was painful.  Alan grew rapidly worse.  In two days he was so ill that she thought it her duty to telegraph at once to Dr. Merrick, in London:  “Alan’s life in danger.  Serious attack of Florentine typhoid.  Italian doctor despairs of his life.  May not last till to-morrow.—­Herminia Barton.”

Later on in the day came a telegram in reply; it was addressed to Alan:  “Am on my way out by through train to attend you.  But as a matter of duty, marry the girl at once, and legitimatize your child while the chance remains to you.”

It was kindly meant in its way.  It was a message of love, of forgiveness, of generosity, such as Herminia would hardly have expected from so stern a man as Alan had always represented his father to be to her.  But at moments of unexpected danger angry feelings between father and son are often forgotten, and blood unexpectedly proves itself thicker than water.  Yet even so Herminia couldn’t bear to show the telegram to Alan.  She feared lest in this extremity, his mind weakened by disease, he might wish to take his father’s advice, and prove untrue to their common principles.  In that case, woman that she was, she hardly knew how she could resist what might be only too probably his dying wishes.  Still, she nerved herself for this trial of faith, and went through with it bravely.  Alan, though sinking, was still conscious at moments; in one such interval, with an effort to be calm, she showed him his father’s telegram.  Tears rose into his eyes.  “I didn’t expect him to come,” he said.  “This is all very good of him.”  Then, after a moment, he added, “Would you wish me in this extremity, Hermy, to do as he advises?”

Herminia bent over him with fierce tears on her eyelids.  “O Alan darling,” she cried, “you mustn’t die!  You mustn’t leave me!  What could I do without you? oh, my darling, my darling!  But don’t think of me now.  Don’t think of the dear baby.  I couldn’t bear to disturb you even by showing you the telegram.  For your sake, Alan, I’ll be calm,—­I’ll be calm.  But oh, not for worlds,—­not for worlds,—­even so, would I turn my back on the principles we would both risk our lives for!”

Alan smiled a faint smile.  “Hermy,” he said slowly, “I love you all the more for it.  You’re as brave as a lion.  Oh, how much I have learned from you!”

All that night and next day Herminia watched by his bedside.  Now and again he was conscious.  But for the most part he lay still, in a comatose condition, with eyes half closed, the whites showing through the lids, neither moving nor speaking.  All the time he grew worse steadily.  As she sat by his bedside, Herminia began to realize the utter loneliness of her position.  That Alan might die was the one element in the situation she had never even dreamt of.  No wife could love her husband with more perfect devotion than Herminia loved Alan.  She hung upon every breath with unspeakable suspense and unutterable affection.  But the Italian doctor held out little hope of a rally.  Herminia sat there, fixed to the spot, a white marble statue.