"I wouldn't try to talk overmuch," I told him.
"It's a bit of a relief to me," he answered with a smile. "All this
time----" He lifted his right hand above his head and began stiffly to
open and shut the fingers. "I was gripping her wrist," he explained; "I
only let go twice, and the first time it was bruised purple, as if she'd
shut it in a door.... And nobody _said_ anything.... Sonia kept getting
spasms of pain which made her moan or cry out, and her nerve gave way
from time to time ... and then I--I tried to hypnotise her, I found that
by repeating 'Sonia, Sonia, Sonia' very distinctly and very low, I could
capture her mind.... God! how it got on my nerves!"
The first cup of coffee was followed by a second, which he gulped in
scalding mouthfuls, asking at short intervals what the time was and how
long he had already stayed away.
"Violet and the nurse are pretty well beat out," he explained; "I want
to pack them off for a bit of a rest while I mount guard. And we've got
to shift the boy before Sonia comes round...."
"You're not moving him--yet?"
"Only to another room. I--I promised her, you see."
He bade me a hurried good-bye and disappeared upstairs until the middle
of the afternoon. George came in after luncheon, put half a dozen
breathless enquiries and returned hot-foot to his office. Bertrand had a
question in the House, but, as soon as he could get away, he came and
demanded a full report.
"You don't gather when the child's to be moved?" he said, when I had
done. "I---- This is an extraordinary business, Stornaway. I've lived a
devil of a long time and I've done some pretty odd things and mixed with
some pretty curious people and all that sort of thing, but I'm hanged if
I've ever done anything like this before. What are we all up to? I feel
I've been stampeded."
"Well, neither of us is doing anything very active," I pointed out,
looking at my cigar and book.
"We're _countenancing_ it. If you sat by and watched a drunken man
making pipe-lights out of five-pound notes.... _What_ have they decided
to do? I don't understand them; I can't keep pace with them."
In so far as I had been admitted to O'Rane's confidence, he had decided
to keep the child in London until it could be safely moved and then to
send it with its nurse to a cottage which he had mysteriously acquired
on the South coast. And there his plans for the time being had ended.
"He's apparently committing himself to three households," Bertrand
cried. "The first because his wife refuses to live with him, the second
because he wants to make his friends believe that they _are_ living
together, the third because he requires a home for his wife's child,
which in time will come to be regarded as his child...."
"_I_'ve got no influence over him," I said in protest against his tone
of injury.
Bertrand shook his head gloomily.
"When once he's made up his mind--it doesn't matter how fantastic a
thing may be...."
The door opened, and O'Rane came in to repeat his request of the morning
for water and any food that was available. He had found time to shave
and change his clothes, but I have never seen a man more utterly
exhausted.
"Is there any news?" Bertrand asked.
"She's doing--very fairly, I think," he answered with a drawl that was
almost a stammer. "The effect--drug, you know--wearing off. She woke
up--for a few moments. Now getting some natural sleep."
I put a stiff dash of brandy into the water and watched O'Rane's grey
cheeks colouring.
"Did she seem comfortable?" I enquired.
"Comfortable?" he repeated with a laugh. "The physical _relief_, you
know.... Whatever happens now, she's free from pain, she's bound to feel
better and better.... When I was wounded, there were times when I
thought I couldn't bear it; the nurses told me that I said quite
clearly, 'It's _no_ use hurting me any more; I _can't_ stand it.' Dear
souls! as if _they_ could help it! And one _did_ stand it.... But, when
the pain began to abate, when you didn't have to keep yourself braced up
against it, I went as limp as a rag. It was like the end of a long
fever.... After that, whether I was asleep or awake, I always knew that
the real hell was over. There might be little twinges in unexpected
places, but the pain was _over_, _over_. And the feeling of weakness was
so delicious! Like an endless repetition of the glorious moment when
you're just dropping off to sleep.... That's how Sonia is now."
The next report came after dinner, when the doctor had concluded his
evening visit and she had been put to sleep for the night.
"She's had a frightful time," he told us, "and there's always the
possibility of a relapse, but I know she's not going to relapse, I'm not
going to let her."
"And the child?"
"Oh, he's all right."
The next morning O'Rane joined me at breakfast after a night's unbroken
rest. Despite a mild protest from the nurse, he had insisted on staying
in Sonia's room and had slept in his clothes on the floor for twelve
hours on end.
"She's had a wonderful night," he told me, exultantly. "And the boy's
doing magnificently. They seem to think it'll be reasonably safe to move
him to-morrow. And then, if all's well with Sonia, I shall go back to
Melton. I shall only want to talk to her, if I stay any longer; and, as
it is, if a board creaks or anyone touches the bed.... That good angel
Violet has promised not to go until _every_thing's all right. Don't you
think she's been wonderful? Violet Loring, I mean. I'd got no sort of
call on her."
"I don't know that the baby upstairs has any great call on you," I
answered.
"We--ell, you can't open an account with a thing twenty-four hours old,"
he laughed. "I say, Stornaway, I had no idea that babies were so
_small_. Hullo, that's Violet's step! There's nothing wrong, is there?"
Lady Loring had come in to say that Sonia was asking for him. He hurried
upstairs, leaving his breakfast unfinished, and did not return for a
couple of hours. I asked him whether there was anything amiss, for there
was an unfamiliar frown on his face.
"No, but it was curious ..." he began hesitatingly. "You remember how
she made me promise.... Well, I went in and asked her how she was, and
she said she was feeling better.... And then she asked about the child
... wanted to know whether it was a boy or a girl ... wanted to know how
it was.... It ended by my carrying him in for her to see.... I was in
two minds whether to do it, because she was working herself up to a
pitch of great excitement, but I thought it would only make things
worse, if I refused. She wanted to see what he was like, you know,
whether there was even the remotest resemblance.... She gave a sob, when
I brought him in, and said, 'He's got my eyes.' I'm afraid the whole
thing excited her rather. She suddenly got the idea that she oughtn't to
have asked _me_ to bring him in. Poor mite! he's not responsible for his
own father, and I told her that if we started quarrelling over a thing
like that.... Another curious thing, Stornaway; I have always imagined
that I should hate the very existence of the child; when I was first
told what was the matter with Sonia, I felt that there was a sheet of
fire between us. I don't feel that now; I feel that Grayle has passed
utterly out of our lives. As for punishing that poor, helpless little
creature.... I suppose you hate babies, but I wish you'd have a look at
this one and tell me what he's like. I've always thought what fun it
would be to have a son and watch him growing up.... I should have
thought that Sonia, that _any_ woman, after all she's gone through....
Still, when you've been treated as Grayle treated her, when you've
waited in dread and horror all these weary months...." He broke off in
perplexity, which only lifted when he suddenly began to smile. "You
_will_ have a look at him, won't you? And tell me what he's like. He's
going to the country to-morrow."
After dinner that night I made my way to the bedroom which had been
temporarily converted into a nursery. It was dark and empty, and I
walked to the door of Sonia's room in search of Lady Loring. A low sound
of voices penetrated to the passage: I knocked and went in to find
O'Rane standing by the bed with a thickly swathed child in his arms,
while his wife lay with her hand in Lady Loring's, looking up at him.
"I hope you're feeling better," I said to Sonia.
"David says you haven't even seen him yet," she pouted, disregarding my
words. She stretched our her arms to the slumbering child. "Darling,
you're being rather left out of all this, aren't you? But if you _will_
go to sleep when the loveliest things are being said about you.... My
blessed, I've waked you!"
There was a half-perceptible movement under the long shawl. O'Rane's
arms began to rock gently.
"Take him back, David," Sonia begged. "And then just come in for one
moment to say good-night. I feel so feeble that I simply can't stand
more."
As he left the room, Lady Loring nodded to me, and I prepared to follow
her. Sonia was lying with closed eyes, but, as I moved, she raised
herself and beckoned with one hand.
"Mr. Stornaway! Just one moment before he comes back! They want to take
my baby away. I know I asked them to, but that was _before_.... You
won't let them, will you? He's mine, mine! David thinks I'm saying it
because I ought to, because everybody would expect me to, but I'm not!
On my honour I'm not! I'd go through it again rather than let them take
my baby away."
"He won't be taken away, if you want to keep him," I promised her.
"Good-night, my dear Sonia. Go straight off to sleep and don't worry
about anything. If you want your child, David won't try to steal him.
You're sure you want him?"
"David?"
"I meant the boy."
A smile dawned on her tired face.
"I want so much! I always have.... Oh, I know you despise me, and you're
quite right. I despise myself. But I _must_ be loved, I can't get on
without it. And I've been, oh! so lonely!"
She gave a little sob. I felt a hand on my arm and turned to find Lady
Loring shaking her head and pointing to the door.
"Tell me anything I can do to help you, Sonia," I said, "and I'll do it.
Now good-night. You've got to go to sleep, and I shan't let David even
say good-night to you."