When Virginia recovered consciousness she lay for some time with her
eyes shut, frowning. She seemed to have come back from somewhere very
far away, and it had been difficult, so difficult to come back at all,
and she was tired out with the effort. Where had she been? She lay
trying to remember, her arms straight down by her side, the palms of her
hands upturned as if some one had flung them there like that and she had
been too indifferent to move them. Her hair, in two thick plaits, was
neatly arranged, a plait drawn down over each shoulder, and her bed was
spotless and tidy.
She opened her heavy eyes presently, and saw her mother sitting by the
pillow.
Her mother. She shut her eyes again and thought this over; but it tired
her to think, and she didn’t bother much with it. Her mother was sitting
quite still, holding a plait of some one’s dark hair against her lips
and kissing it. There was another person in the room, moving about
without any noise, dressed in white. Who?
A glimmer of recollection stole into Virginia’s mind. Without bothering
to open her eyes--the exertion of doing that was so enormous--she
managed to murmur, ‘Have I--had my baby?’ And her mother took her hand
and kissed it and told her she had, and that it was a boy. A beautiful
boy, her mother said.
She thought this over too, frowning with the effort. A beautiful boy.
That was the opposite of a beautiful girl. And the nurse--of course,
that white thing was the nurse--came and held a cup to her mouth and
made her drink something.
Then she lay quiet again, with her eyes shut. She had had her baby. A
beautiful boy. The news in no way stirred her; it tired her.
Presently there came another flicker of recollection. Stephen. That was
her husband. Where was he?
With an effort she opened her eyes and looked languidly at her mother.
How hard it was to pronounce that St. Such an exertion. But she managed
it, and got out, ‘Stephen----?’
Her mother, kissing her hand again, said he had a little cold, and was
staying in bed.
Stephen had a little cold, and was staying in bed. This news in no way
stirred her either. She lay quite apathetic, her arms straight by her
side, her hands palm upwards on the counterpane. Stephen; the baby; her
mother; a profound indifference to them all filled her mind, still dark
with the shadows of that great dim place she had clambered out of,
clambered and clambered till her body was bruised and sore from head to
foot, and so dead tired--so dead, dead tired.
Some one else came into the room. A man. Perhaps a doctor, for he took
up her hand and held it in his for a while, and then said something to
the nurse, who came and raised her head and gave her another
drink,--rather like what she remembered brandy used to be.
Brandy in bed. Wasn’t that--what was the word?--yes, queer. Wasn’t that
queer, to drink brandy in bed.
But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. It was nice when nothing
mattered. So peaceful and quiet; so, so peaceful and quiet. Like
floating on one’s back in calm water on a summer afternoon, looking up
at the blue sky, and every now and then letting one’s head sink a
little,--just a little, so that the cool water rippled over one’s ears;
or letting it sink a little more,--just a little more, so that the cool
water rippled over one’s face; and one sank and sank; gently deeper;
gently deeper; till at last there was nothing but sleep.