XV

The nervous distress had gone--with extraordinary suddenness; and a

curiously unruffled calm filled her mind. Nothing matters. This is not

_all_.

She was a deeply religious woman, but quite unorthodox in the letter of

her faith. There might be as many rituals as there are social

communities, a different altar for every day of the year; but, however

you dressed the eternal glory and the limitless power in garments taken

from the poor wardrobe of man's imagination, the veritable God was

unchanged, unchanging. And her toleration of the diverse opinions of

others enabled her to worship as comfortably under the high-vaulted

magnificence of a Catholic cathedral as within the narrow shabbiness of

a Wesleyan chapel. The perfume of swinging censers did not cloud her

brain, nor the ugliness of white-washed walls grieve her eyes--any

consecrated place of prayer was good enough to pray in.

But for the sake of old associations, by reason of its familiar

homeliness, its air of solidity without pomp, and a simplicity that yet

is not undignified, she loved this parish church of St. Saviour's; and

it was here, sitting through the long undecorated service, that mental

equanimity was most strangely if temporarily restored to her. Although

not participating, she stayed for the celebration of the communion; and

while the mystic, symbolic rites were performed, she neither prayed nor

meditated. For her it was a blank pause,--no thought,--nothing; but

nevertheless she became aware of a deepening perception of rest and

peace, and the feeling that she had been uplifted--raised to a spiritual

height from which she could look down on the common pains of earth, and

see their intrinsically trivial character.

Our life, be it what it may, does not end here. This is not all.

Something wider, more massive, infinitely grander, is coming to us, if

we will wait patiently.

She sat motionless until all the congregation had dispersed; and when

she left the church, there was an expression of gravity on her face and

a sense of contentment in her heart. At the sight of some children

romping by the church-yard railings, she smiled. A boy pushed a girl

with mirthful vigorousness, and she spoke to him gently.

"Don't be rough, little boy. Take care, and don't hurt her--even in

play."

Then she gave the children "silver sixpences to buy sweeties," and went

slowly down the court. She could think kindly and benignantly of all the

world. There was not a tinge of bitterness remaining when she thought of

her husband.

As she lay in bed one morning after a night of dreamless sleep, a chance

word dropped by Yates set her lazily thinking of the last date on which

she had suffered from those normal and not accidental fluctuations of

energy that are produced by periodically recurrent causes. Beginning to

count the weeks, she fancied that some error of memory was confusing

her--time of late had moved with such heavy feet; what seemed long was

really short in the story of her days. Then she began to count the days,

trying to make fixed points, and laboriously filling the gaps that

intervened. Then she stopped counting and thinking.

Yates had gone out of the room, and she lay quite still, with relaxed

limbs and slackened respiration.

And her mind seemed dull and void, though wonder stirred and thrilled.

It was like dawn in a hill-girt valley--black darkness mingling with

silver mist; shadows growing thin, but not retreating; the ribbed sides

of the mountains very slowly becoming more and more solidly stupendous,

but refusing to disclose the details of their form or colour, although,

beyond the vast ramparts with which they aid the night, the sun is

surely rising. Not till the sun bursts in fire above the eastern wall

does the day begin.

So, with flooding golden light, the splendid hope came to her.

She waited for a few more days. There was no mistake; she knew that she

had counted correctly; but she pretended to herself that she must allow

a wide margin to cover the contingency of miscalculation.

Then she spoke of the facts to Yates, after extracting a solemn vow of

secrecy. Yates said they could draw only one conclusion from the facts;

it was impossible to doubt--but they would know for certain next time.

They must count again; and, after allowing another wide margin, settle

the approaching date which would infallibly confirm their hopes or

cruelly dissipate them.

For a little while longer, then, she must keep her splendid secret.

Her heart was overflowing with a joy such as she had thought she could

never feel again. And with the warm stream of bliss there were gushing

fountains of gratitude. She will forgive her husband everything, because

he has crowned her life with this ineffable glory.

It justifies her marriage; in a manner more perfect than she had dared

to imagine, it gives her back her youth. All mothers at the cradle have

one age--the age of motherhood. And irresistibly it will win his respect

and love--some love must come for the mother of his babe.

Although she was waiting with so much anxiety until the second

significant epoch should be passed, she found that time glided by her

now easily and swiftly. Yates--the wise old spinster--assuming in a more

marked degree that air of matronly authority that she had worn before

the wedding, told her of the vital importance of taking good rest, good

nourishment, and good cheerful views regarding the future.

So she often lay upon the sofa in her room--resting,--smiling and

dreaming. She had no real doubt now. It was miraculous, glorious, true.

She thought of the many symptoms that she had noticed but never

considered, so that the revelation of their meaning brought the same

glad surprise as to a young and innocent bride. She might have

guessed.--The dreadful instability of nerves; longings for the widest

outlet of physical effort, alternating with weak horrors of the

slightest task; and, above all, the facile tears always springing to her

eyes--these things, in one who by habit was firm of purpose and who wept

with difficulty, should have been promptly recognized as unfailing signs

of her condition. Lesser signs, too, had not been wanting--the vagrant

fancies, the mental ups and downs which correspond with the changed

states of the body; and she groped in the dim past, comparing her recent

sensations and reveries with those experienced twenty-three years ago,

before the birth of Enid. She might have guessed.--But truly perhaps she

had been too humble of spirit ever to prepare herself for the admission

of so proud a thought. Even in the brightly coloured dreams from which

realities had so rudely awakened her, she was not advancing towards so

triumphant an apotheosis.

But no morning sickness! Not yet. It will begin later this time--for the

second child; and it will not be so bad. That first time--when poor Enid

was coming into the world--she was but a slip of a girl; depressed by

heavy care; worn out by the watchings and nursings of her mother's

illness. But now everything was and would be different. She possessed

robust and long-established health; her husband was a magnificently

strong man; their child would be a most noble gorgeous creature.

And each time that she thought thus of the child's father, the fountain

springs of her intense gratitude rose and gushed higher and broader. She

was only vaguely conscious of the extent of the revulsion of her

feelings where he was concerned. The change seemed so natural and so

little mysterious that she did not measure it. With the awakening of the

new hopes, there had arisen a new love for him--a love purged of all

impurities.

This was the real love--wide-reaching sympathy, infinite tenderness; the

love that can understand all and forgive all; the instinct of protection

blending with the instinct of submission; the maternal feeling extending

beyond the unborn child to its creator--making them both her children.

One day when he said he wanted to ask her a favour, she told him, before

he added another word, that she felt sure she would grant the favour.

She was reading, in the drawing-room; and she slipped the book under the

cushion of the sofa, and looked up at him with an expectant smile.

Then, showing some slight embarrassment, he explained that he had been

"outrunning the constable."

All the arrangements of the partnership were formally settled; nothing

had been overlooked by clever Mr. Prentice; everything was cut and

dried; certain proportionately fixed sums were to be passed from time to

time to the private credit of each partner; and then at the appointed

seasons, when the true profits of the firm had been ascertained, amounts

making up the balance of earned income would be paid over. All the usual

precautions, and some that perhaps were rather unusual, had been adopted

in order to prevent the partners from anticipating profits by premature

drafts upon the funds of the firm. But now, as Marsden explained, he had

exhausted his private account and was in sad need of a little ready to

keep him going.

She instantly agreed to give him the money--with the pleasure a too

indulgent mother might feel in giving to a spendthrift son.

Extravagance--what is it? Only one of those faults of youth by which the

thoughtless young culprits endear themselves to their elderly guardians.

"Yes, Dick, I'll write the cheque at once. My chequebook is over there."

She rose slowly from the sofa, and slowly moved across the room to the

Sheraton desk near the window. Yates had begged her to beware of abrupt

and hasty movements, and she walked about the house now with careful,

well-considered footsteps.

"Of course, old girl, if you can see your way to making the amount for a

little _more_?"

And she made it for a little more.

He was delighted. "Upon my word, Jane, you're a trump. No rot about you.

When you see anyone in a hole, you don't badger him with a pack of

questions--you just pull him out of the hole...."

He thanked her and praised her so much that she melted in tenderness,

and almost told him her secret. She looked at him fondly and admiringly.

He seemed so strong and so brave--with his stiff close-cropped hair and

his white evenly-shaped teeth,--laughing gleefully as he pocketed his

present,--like a great happy schoolboy. While she looked at him, the

secret was trying to escape, was burning her lips, and knocking at her

breast with each quickened heartbeat.

She succeeded, however, in restraining the expansive impulse. The delay

can but heighten the triumph--it is so much grander to be able to say,

not "I _think_," but "I _know_."

When he had hurried away to cash his cheque, she took out the Book that

she had been reading and had shyly concealed under the cushion. It was

the Bible. Reverently reopening it and musingly turning the leaves, she

glanced at those chapters of Genesis that tell of the first gift of

human life.... "In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy

desire shall be to thy husband; and he shall rule over thee."

The softness and the exaltation of her mood showed very plainly in the

expression of her face as she read the nobly fabled origin of love and

marriage. While reading she made vows to God and to herself. If all went

well, she would cheerfully bear the hardest usage, at her husband's

hands. She would never reproach him, she would ever be a comfort to him.

And so long as their child lived, the torch-bearer carrying the fire of

life kindled from their joint lives should guide her steps through the

darkest places towards the distant glimmer of eternal light.

That night she was roused from her first sleep by the sound of heavily

blundering footsteps. Mr. Marsden had come home in an unusually jolly

state. His wife heard him stumbling about the adjacent room, knocking

over a chair, laughing, and singing drunken snatches of song.

He had never before been quite so jolly. For a minute the hilarious

music saddened her; but then she felt quite happy again. He was not

really drunk--merely excited, elated. And besides, this sort of thing

would not occur in the future: a generous fear of the questioning eyes

of an innocent child would help to keep him straight.

And she fell to thinking of domestic arrangements that would be

necessary before the great event. His bedroom and the dressing-room used

to be the day and night nursery when Enid was a baby. The grandmother

slept in the room at present occupied by Yates, and Yates slept in a

smaller room. How would they manage now? This room should be the night

nursery--she herself could sleep anywhere. Probably Yates would have to

give up her nice room--but Yates would not mind. And, yes--the

difficulty must be confronted--Dick must give up his dressing-room.

Would he mind?

No. Every difficulty would be surmounted. All would be smoothly and

easily arranged in the end. Dreamily sweeping away the difficulties, she

sank again into restful sleep.

That important second date was drawing near, and Yates was becoming more

and more fussily attentive. It taxed all her strength of mind to keep

the secret to herself; she longed for the time when it might be made

public property.

"Look here, ma'am," she said mysteriously, "don't let anyone see us

opening this parcel. Let's go upstairs and open it there, quiet and

comfortable."

"What is it, Yates?"

Upstairs in the bedroom, Yates, with many shrewd nods and meaning

smiles, untied her parcel, and displayed to Mrs. Marsden its

entrancingly fascinating contents.

"Oh, Yates!"

They were the prettiest imaginable little baby-things--woollen socks,

flannel robes, etc., articles of costume suitable to the very earliest

stage; together with materials for binders, wrappers, and so on, that

would require cutting, stitching, _making_.

"The work will do you good," said Yates. "Just to amuse yourself, when

you're sitting all alone up here--and to keep your mind off the strain."

"Oh, Yates, they are lovely. Where did you get them?"

"Don't you bother where I got them," said Yates, looking shame-faced

all at once. "I don't intend to tell you." But then she went on

defiantly: "Well, if you _must_ know, I got them in the children's

outfitting department--over at Bence's."

Her mistress was not in the least angry. She smiled at the sound of the

rival's name;--and, of course, in this particular department there was

no rivalry between the two shops.

Yates was particular that her interesting patient should enjoy a

moderate amount of fresh air, and advised that in these cases gentle

carriage exercise is distinctly beneficial.

Several times therefore a brougham was procured from Mr. Young's

stables, and mistress and maid went for a quiet afternoon drive. Yates

would have preferred to enjoy these airings earlier in the day, but she

agreed with Mrs. Marsden that a morning drive might appear

"conspicuous." As it was, Yates made the excursion quite sufficiently

remarkable--hot-water bottle for the patient's feet, rugs for her legs,

three or four shawls for her shoulders.

"And don't you drive too fast," said Yates sternly to Mr. Young's

coachman. "Take us along quiet.... And if you meet any of those great

engines on the road, just turn round and go the other way."

"I don't want you frightened," she told Mrs. Marsden, "if only for half

a minute."

Mr. Young's horses, at an easy jog trot, took them along very, very

quietly; some air, but not too much, blew in upon them pleasantly; and

throughout the drive the two women talked unceasingly of the same

engrossing subject.

"Which do you hope for, yourself, ma'am?"

"Yates, I scarcely know."

"Well, ma'am, I'll tell you candid, it's a girl _I_ am hoping for."

"But whichever it is--boy or girl--you'll love it just the same, won't

you, Yates?"

"Indeed I shall, ma'am."

And they discussed christian names.

"If it is a boy, of course I shall wish him to have his father's name

for one."

"Yes, I suppose so, ma'am."

"Richard for his first name; and, if Mr. Marsden approves, I shall call

him Martin. I should like him to bear the name of Saint Martin--for a

little romantic reason of my own. And I also like the name of

Roderick--if that isn't too grand."

"I like the plain names best," said Yates. "If it's a girl, I do hope

and trust you'll give her your own name, ma'am. You can never get a

better name than Jane. Let her be Miss Jane."

They met no ugly traction engines to upset the horses, and disturb the

patient's composure. They chose the level sheltered roads, and avoided

the dangerous windy hills; and Mrs. Marsden looked through the half-shut

window at the featureless landscape, and thought it almost beautiful,

even at this dead time of the year. It was bare and nearly

colourless,--all the hedgerows of a dull brown, the far-off woods a

misty grey, and here and there, seen through the black field-gates,

patches of snow faintly sparkling beneath the feeble light. The tardy

spring as yet showed scarce a sign of nascent energy. But the winter had

no terrors for her now. There was summer in her heart.

The date had passed; and, passing, had left apparent certainty.

Yates was wildly excited, irrepressibly jubilant.

"You'll tell him now, won't you, ma'am?"

"Yes, I can tell him now."

"Everybody may know it now, ma'am--And, oh, won't they be glad to hear

the news in the shop."

But naturally Mr. Marsden must hear the news before anybody else; and

unluckily Mr. Marsden was not in Mallingbridge to hear it. He had been

expected home two days ago, but something was detaining him in London.

This final useless delay, after the long unavoidable delay, seemed more

than Mrs. Marsden could support.

"Oh, why is he away? Oh, Yates, I want him--I want him with me. Oh, oh!"

She burst into a sobbing fit, and rung her hands piteously. "Yates,

fetch him. Bring my husband back to me. Don't let him leave me now--of

all times."

This was in the morning, before Mrs. Marsden had got up. After sobbing

for a little while, she became suddenly faint and breathless, and sank

back upon her pillow. Yates, scared by her faintness and whiteness, ran

out of the room and despatched a hasty messenger.

She could not fetch the husband; so the good soul did the next best

thing, and sent for the doctor.

When she returned to the bedroom Mrs. Marsden seemed all right again.

"Doctor Eldridge is coming to see you, ma'am."

"Is he?"

"It's only wise," said Yates authoritatively, "that he should take

charge of the case now. It's full time we had him in. He knows your

constitution--and you can trust him, and feel quite safe to go on just

as he advises you."

Dr. Eldridge was a long time alone with the patient. After Yates had

been told to leave them, he talked gently and gravely to his old friend.

He confessed to being rather sceptical by habit of mind; in forming a

diagnosis he was perhaps always disposed to err on the side of caution,

and thus he often declined to accept what at first sight seemed an

obvious inference until it had been corroborated by indisputable

evidence;--but then again, all his experience had shown him how prudent,

how necessary it is to prepare oneself for disappointment.... He thought

that Mrs. Marsden should, if possible, prepare herself for

disappointment.

Outside the room, he spoke to Yates with a severity that was only

mitigated by contempt.

"What nonsense have you been stuffing her up with? It's too bad of you."

And then the professional contempt for amateur doctors sounded in the

severe tone of his voice. "You ought to know better at your time of

life."

He came again next day, and told Mrs. Marsden the bitter truth. The

correct interpretation of the symptoms was far, very far different from

that which she had imagined. And then he pronounced the words of doom.

It was not the birth of hope, but the death of hope. Somewhat earlier

than one would have predicted as likely, she had passed the

turning-point in the cyclic history of her existence.

A deadly, numbing apathy descended upon her. She was not ill; but in

order to escape the infinitely oppressive duties of dressing, sitting at

meals, walking up and down stairs, listening to voices and answering

questions, she pretended illness; and, to cover the pretence, Dr.

Eldridge frequently visited her.

Day after day she lay upon her sofa, watching the feeble daylight turn

to dusk, staring at the red glow of the coals or the golden flicker of

burning wood--feeling too sad to reproach, too weak to curse the

inexorable laws of destiny.

Her husband used to enter the room noisily and jovially, with a cigar in

his mouth and a shining silk hat on the back of his head.

"What the dickens is the matter with you, Jane?"

He did not guess. He could never read her thoughts.

"I believe you ought to rouse yourself, old girl. I suppose old Eldridge

sees a chance of running up a nice little bill--and Yates will have her

bit out of it. Between them, they'll persuade you you're going to kick

the bucket."

"I feel so tired, Dick."

"Then go on taking it easy," said Marsden genially. "But here's my

tip--look out for another doctor, and another maid. I wouldn't bid

twopence, if both of them were put up to auction."

Another time he said, "Jane, do you twig why I am wearing my topper?

That means _business_. Yes, I'm going to throw myself into my work now,

heart and soul. Buck up as soon as you can, and come and see how I'm

setting about me."

While he stood by the door, talking and smoking, she looked at him with

dull but kind eyes.

Some of the glamour of that vanished hope still hung about him; and the

sense of gratitude, although now meaningless, lingered for a long while.

But for herself, it would have been a fact instead of an hysterical

fancy. It was her fault, not his.

When he had shut the door, she thought of herself dully, without pity,

in stupid wonder.

This is the end. The heats of summer gone; the mimic warmth of autumn

gone, too; nothing left but the cold, dead winter--the end of all.