man!
“Are you holding on tight?” he asked, with good-natured scorn.
“I see you can drive,” said the doctor.
“It is not the first time I’ve had reins in my hands,” replied Edward, modestly. “Here we are!”
He showed the specialist to the bedroom, and asked whether Dr. Ramsay required him further.
“No, I don’t want you just now; but you’d better stay up to be ready, if anything happens.... I’m afraid Bertha is very bad indeed—you must be prepared for everything.”
Edward retired to the next room and sat down. He was genuinely disturbed, but even now could not realise that Bertha was dying—his mind was sluggish, and he was unable to imagine the future. A more emotional man would have been white with fear, his heart beating painfully and his nerves quivering with a hundred anticipated terrors. He would have been quite useless; while Edward was fit for any emergency—he could have been trusted to drive another ten miles in search of some appliance, and, with perfect steadiness, to help in any necessary operation.
“You know,” he said to Dr. Ramsay, “I don’t want to get in your way; but if I should be any use in the room, you can trust me not to get flurried.”
“I don’t think there’s anything you can do; the nurse is very trustworthy and capable.”
“Women,” said Edward, “get so excited; they always make fools of themselves if they possibly can.”
But the night air had made Craddock sleepy, and after half-an-hour in the chair, trying to read a book, he dozed off. Presently, however, he awoke, and the first light of day filled the room with a gray coldness. He looked at his watch.
“By Jove, it’s a long job,” he said.
There was a knock at the door, and the nurse came in.
“Will you please come.”
Dr. Ramsay met him in the passage. “Thank God, it’s over. She’s had a terrible time.”
“Is she all right?”
“I think she’s in no danger now—but I’m sorry to say we couldn’t save the child.”
A pang went through Edward’s heart. “Is it dead?”
“It was still-born. I was afraid it was hopeless. You’d better go to Bertha now—she wants you. She doesn’t know about the child.”
Bertha was lying in an attitude of complete exhaustion: she lay on her back, with arms stretched in utter weakness by her sides. Her face was gray with past anguish, her eyes dull and lifeless, half closed; and her jaw hung almost as hangs the jaw of a corpse. She tried to form a smile as she saw Edward, but in her feebleness the lips scarcely moved.
“Don’t try to speak, dear,” said the nurse, seeing that Bertha was attempting words.
Edward bent down and kissed her, the faintest blush coloured her cheeks, and she began to cry; the tears stealthily glided down her cheeks.
“Come nearer to me, Eddie,” she whispered.
He knelt beside her, suddenly touched. He took her hand, and the contact had a vivifying effect; she drew a long breath, and her lips formed a weary, weary smile.
“Thank God, it’s over,” she groaned, half whispering. “Oh, Eddie, darling, you can’t think what I’ve gone through.”
“Well, it’s all over now.”
“And you’ve been worrying too, Eddie. It encouraged me to think that you shared my trouble. You must go to sleep now. It was good of you to drive to Tercanbury for me.”
“You mustn’t talk,” said Dr. Ramsay, coming back into the room, after seeing the specialist sent off.
“I’m better now,” said Bertha, “since I’ve seen Eddie.”
“Well, you must go to sleep.”
“You’ve not told me yet if it’s a boy or a girl; tell me, Eddie, you know.”
Edward looked uneasily at the doctor.
“It’s a boy,” said Dr. Ramsay.
“I knew it would be,” she murmured. An expression of ecstatic pleasure came into her face, chasing away the grayness of death. “I’m so glad. Have you seen it, Eddie?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s our child, isn’t it? It’s worth going through the pain to have a baby. I’m so happy.”
“You must go to sleep now.”
“I’m not a bit sleepy—and I want to see my boy.”
“No, you can’t see him now,” said Dr. Ramsay, “he’s asleep, and you mustn’t disturb him.”
“Oh, I should like to see him, just for one minute. You needn’t wake him.”
“You shall see him after you’ve been asleep,” said the doctor, soothingly. “It’ll excite you too much.”
“Well, you go in and see him, Eddie, and kiss him, and then I’ll go to sleep.”
She seemed so anxious that at least its father should see his child, that the nurse led Edward into the next room. On a chest of drawers was lying something covered with a towel. This the nurse lifted, and Edward saw his child; it was naked and very small, hardly human, repulsive, yet very pitiful. The eyes were closed, the eyes that had never been opened. Edward looked at it for a minute.
“I promised I’d kiss it,” he whispered.
He bent down and touched with his lips the white forehead; the nurse drew the towel over the body, and they went back to Bertha.
“Is he sleeping?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you kiss him?”
“Yes.”
Bertha smiled. “Fancy your kissing baby before me.”
But Dr. Ramsay’s draught was taking its effect, and almost immediately Bertha fell into a pleasant sleep.
“Let’s take a turn in the garden,” said Dr. Ramsay. “I think I ought to be here when she wakes.”
The air was fresh, scented with the spring flowers and the odour of the earth. Both men inspired it with relief after the close atmosphere of the sick-room. Dr. Ramsay put his arm in Edward’s.
“Cheer up, my boy,” he said. “You’ve borne it all magnificently. I’ve never seen a man go through a night like this better than you; and upon my word, you’re as fresh as paint this morning.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Edward. “What’s
