When the doctor arrived the convulsion had passed. Little Al was lying
in his crib, asleep, breathing easily, the snarls in his nerves
unravelled. Georgia explained what had happened.
"You did just the right thing," said the physician.
"Doctor," she asked slowly, "will he ever be well?"
"What do you mean by well?"
"I mean, when he grows up will he be as strong--and--and bright as
other men?"
"That is impossible to answer, Mrs. Connor, without the gift of
prophecy."
"Don't put me off," said she staring at him, "tell me the truth. I
have a right to know."
"I should first have to have a little more definite knowledge of his
antecedents, his family history. Is there anything which might
explain--"
"Not on our side of the family," Mrs. Talbot interrupted quickly,
"they're clean people, every one."
"His father," said Georgia, "is a drunkard and the son of a drunkard."
"In that case it is possible, mind you I only say possible, that he has
inherited a--a nervous tendency."
"Inherited, ah, I knew. There was something in me that warned me
steadily not to go back to him. Something that made me shudder to
think of it. But at last I gave in, because everyone in the world
seemed in a conspiracy to make me."
"Yes," the doctor answered drily, "we run into such histories
frequently."
"But," she pleaded suppliantly, as if he had the power to do or undo,
"surely my baby can grow out of this--nervous tendency. Tell me he can
grow out of it. With the right care and training, surely he can grow
out of it."
He placed his hand on her shoulder, and honesty seemed to her to be
patent and apparent in his voice. "Yes," he said, "it is possible, it
is probable. I have seen many a mother make her child over with love."
"Ah, that's all I want," she gave a happy little sigh, "for I can do
what they have done."
There was a tap at the door. Mrs. Talbot opened it and Father Hervey
came in. "Oh," she said, "Father, the baby's well again. I shouldn't
have bothered you."
"I'm glad for once it's an occasion for rejoicing," he said quietly.
"Good morning, doctor."
"Good morning, Father. Was the poor fellow long after I left?"
"About half an hour."
"Were you at a deathbed last night, you two?" asked Georgia.
"Yes, Georgia, we were," said the priest.
"It seems somehow strange," she pondered, "that you two, so different,
should be called together at the end."
"Oh, it happens often enough," explained the doctor. "Poor people.
They want to keep them here a little longer, and the priest to bid them
Godspeed in case they've got to go."
"It must be terrible," reflected Mrs. Talbot, "to die without a priest."
"Yes," answered the doctor, "Catholics have the best of us there. They
always go hopefully, and they're the only ones that do. I've sometimes
wished that I could accept the faith, but--" he shook his head slowly.
"Why can't you?" said Georgia quickly. Father Hervey smiled. He and
the doctor were trusted friends. There was no poaching on each other's
preserves.
"Do you honestly believe in a future life?" she asked again, staring at
the man of science with her peculiar little wide-eyed stare.
"Yes, I believe all of us here will probably have it--except perhaps
Father Hervey."
"Well, doctor," said Mrs. Talbot most indignantly, "I must say you've
no call to be disrespectful. If any of us is certain to have it, it's
him."
"Oh, that's one of his little jokes," he said, "he means the rest of
you'll likely leave children behind you to be carrying your living eyes
and nose and mouth about the earth long after the headstones are atop
of you--and that's denied me."
"If they'd been denied me," its chronic undertone of humor momentarily
leaving the doctor's voice, "or were taken now--I'd just as soon quit.
I've four; one's learning to crawl, one to walk, one to read and the
oldest," he made a vain effort to conceal his pride in such a son,
"Oh--he's a boy. He can work his mother as easy as grease with a sore
throat story whenever he wants to stay out of school. Pretty clever,
eh, with a doctor right in the family? He'll be a great bunco
steerer--or a great lawyer--some day and make his name--he's a
junior--bristle in the headlines of 1950. That's the real life after
death--our blood lives on, we don't."
"Yes," said Georgia tenderly glancing at the crib, "our blood lives on,
it lives on."
"When a little shop girl takes the boat over to St. Joe," said the
medical man, folding his arms, well started on his favorite eugenics,
"she may be preparing a blend that will endure as long as the race--ten
thousand or one hundred thousand years, while any of the descendants
are alive. Marriage--true marriage, where children grow up and beget
others--outlasts death by centuries, perhaps eons." He paused to let
it sink in. "Whatever else there may be in addition," he said, bowing
slightly in the direction of the priest, "this much is certain true--in
our children we find immortality."
"Yes," said Georgia softly, looking at the crib where lay her child,
"in our children there is immortality. My sweet little lamb," she
whispered, going to her child, "my sweet--" her voice changed suddenly,
growing very harsh. "Doctor," she said, "come here."
The doctor placed his ear to the child's heart, then took his
stethoscope from his satchel to listen for the least fluttering. He
heard none. As he straightened up again, she saw his answer in his
face.
"Is--he--dead!" she asked.
"Yes." He spoke to the priest. "I will come this afternoon, in case I
can be of any use," he whispered, and quietly withdrew.
The priest sprinkled the small dead body with holy water. Mrs. Talbot
and Al fell on their knees, but Georgia stood. She was unable to kneel
to a God who had done that. The priest prayed, half murmuring. Then
in a louder voice he said, "As for me, Thou hast received me because of
mine innocence."
"And hast set me before Thy face forever," muttered Mrs. Talbot, who
knew the response. Al was silent, for he was not sure of the words.
Georgia stood dumb, watching her child with her wide-eyed little stare.
"The Lord be with thee--" came the deep musical voice of the priest.
"And with thy spirit," muttered Mrs. Talbot.
There was a moment of silence, then came a knock at the door. It was
repeated twice, imperatively.
Then the door was opened from outside and Carl Schroeder, president of
the Fortieth Ward Club, entered, half carrying and half guiding Jim
Connor, who was stupidly drunk.
Schroeder placed Jim in a chair and quickly slunk out. Jim swayed an
instant in the chair, trying to hold his balance, then fell forward out
of it. His hand struck the crib as he lay inert, unknowing, obscene.
Georgia looked at him for an instant, she began to giggle, to laugh.
Her laughter grew louder and louder. It came in waves, each wilder and
higher than the last.
[Illustration: Georgia Laughed.]
It was long before they could quiet her.