It surprised him, and left him vaguely disappointed. To break off their
interview thus sharply seemed to him motiveless. He could see no reason
for it, and his gaze followed her receding figure with speculative
regret. When she was out of sight he picked the child up, and, carrying
him into the cottage parlour, sat down beside the open window, smoking,
and thinking of her.
It was a small room, poorly furnished, and, fretted by its limitations,
the child became speedily fractious. A slipshod landlady pottered
around, setting forth the crockery for dinner, while the little
servant, despatched with the boy from town, mashed his dinner into
an unappetising compound on a plate. From time to time she turned to
soothe him with some of the loud-voiced facetiæ peculiar to the little
servant species in its dealings with fretful childhood, and at these
moments Carew suspended his meditations on his quondam mistress to
wish for the presence of his wife. It was only the second, day of his
son's visit to him, and his unfamiliarity with the arrangement was not
without its effect upon his nerves.
Always dissatisfied with the present time, his capacity for enjoying
the past was correspondingly keen. Reflectively consuming a chop, in
full view of the unappetising compound and infancy's vagaries with a
spoon, he proceeded to re-live it, discerning in the process a thousand
charms to which the reality had seen him blind.
He was unable to shake off the influence of the meeting when dinner
was done. Fancifully, while the child scrambled in a corner with some
toys, he installed Mary in the room; imagining his condition if he had
married her, and moodily watching the curls of tobacco smoke as they
sailed across the dirty dishes. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, rising. But
for the conviction that it would be futile, he would have gone out to
search for her.
That he would see her again before he left the place he was determined.
But he failed to do so both on the morrow and the next day, though he
extended his promenade beyond its usual limits. He did not, in these
excursions, fail to remark that a town sufficiently large to divide one
hopelessly from the face one seeks, can yet be so small that the same
strangers' countenances are recurrent at nearly every turn. A coloured
gentleman he anathematised especially for his iteration.
Though he doubted the possibility of the thing, he could not rid
himself of the idea that she would be at the theatre some evening,
impelled by the temptation to look upon him without his knowledge; and
he played his best now on the chance that she might be there. As often
as was practicable, he scanned the house during the progress of the
piece, and between the acts inspected it through the peep-hole in the
curtain.
Noting his observations one night, a pretty girl in the wings asked
jocularly if "_she_ had promised to wait outside for him."
"No, Kitty, my darling, she hasn't; she won't have anything to do with
me!" he answered, and would have liked to stop and flirt with her. His
brain was hot at the instant, and one woman or another just then----
If Mary had been waiting, he could have talked to her as sentimentally
as before; and have felt as much sentiment, too. All compunction for
his lapses he could assuage by a general condemnation of masculine
nature.
The pretty girl had no part in the play. She was the daughter
of a good-looking woman who was engaged in the dual capacity of
"chamber-maid" and wardrobe-mistress; but although she had only
just left boarding-school, it was a foregone conclusion that, like
her mother, she would be connected with the lower branches of the
profession before long. Already she had acquired very perfectly, in
private, the burlesque lady's tone of address, and was familiar with
the interior of provincial bars, where her mother took a "tonic" after
the performance.
Carew ran across them both, among a group of the male members of the
company, in the back-parlour of a public-house an hour later. Kitty,
innocent enough as yet to find "darling" a novelty, welcomed him with
a flash of her eyes; but he made no response, and, gulping his whisky,
sat glum. The others commented on his abstraction. He replied morosely,
and called for "the same again." It was not unusual for him to drink to
excess now--he was accustomed to excuse the weakness by compassionating
himself upon his dreary life--and to-night he lay back on the settee
sipping whisky till he grew garrulous.
They remained at the table long after the closing hour, the landlady,
who was a friend of Kitty's mamma, enjoining them to quietude. She was
not averse from joining the party herself when the lights in the window
had been extinguished nor did Kitty decline to take a glass of wine
when Carew at last pressed her to be sociable.
"Because you're growing up," he said with a foolish laugh--"'getting a
big girl now'!"
She swept him a mock obeisance in the centre of the floor, shaking back
the hair that was still worn loose about her shoulders.
"Sherry," she said, "if mother says her popsy may? Because I'm 'getting
a big girl now,' mother!"
The bar was in darkness, and this necessitated investigation with a box
of matches. When the bottle was produced, it proved to be empty; the
girl's pantomime of despair was received with loud guffaws. Everybody
had drunk more than was advisable, and the proprietress again attempted
to restrain the hilarity by feeble allusions to her licence.
"The sherry's in the cupboard down the passage," she exclaimed; "won't
you have something else instead? Now, do make less noise, there's good
boys; you'll get me into trouble!"
"I'll go and get it," said Kitty, breaking into a momentary step-dance,
with uplifted arms. "Trust me with the key?"
"And _I_'ll go and see she doesn't rob you," cried Carew. "Come along,
Kit!"
"No you won't," said her mother; "she'll do best alone!" But the
remonstrance was unheeded, and, as the girl ran out into the passage,
he followed; and, as they reached the cupboard and stood fumbling at
the lock, he caught her round the waist and kissed her.
They came back with the bottle together, in the girl's bearing an
assertion of complacent womanhood evoked by the indignity. Carew
applied himself to the liquor with renewed diligence; and by the time
the party dispersed circumspectly through the private door, his eyes
were glazed.
The sleeping town stretched before his uncertain footsteps blanched in
moonlight as he bade the others a thick "good-night." His apartments
were a mile, and more, distant, and, muddled by drink, he struck into
the wrong road, pursuing and branching from it impetuously, till
Westport wound about him in the confusion of a maze. Once he halted, in
the thought that he heard someone approaching. But the sound receded;
and feeling dizzier every minute, he wandered on again, ultimately
with no effort to divine his situation. The sun was rising when,
partially sobered, he passed through the cottage-gate. The sea lapped
the sand gently under a flushing sky; but in the bedroom a candle still
burned, and it was in the flare of the candle that the little servant
confronted him with a frightened face.
"Master Archie, sir!" she faltered; "I've been up with him all
night--he's ill!"
"Ill?" He stood stupidly on the threshold. "What do you mean by ill?
What is it?"
"I don't know; I don't know what I ought to do; I think he ought to
have a doctor."
He pushed past her, with a muttered ejaculation, to the bed where the
child lay whimpering.
"What's the matter, Archie? What is it, little chap?"
"It's his neck he complains of," she said; "you can see, it's all
swollen. He can't eat anything."
Carew looked at it dismayed. A sudden fear of losing the child, a
sudden terror of his own incompetence seized him.
"Fetch a doctor," he stammered, "bring him back with you. You should
have gone before; it wasn't necessary to wait for me to come in to tell
you that if the child was taken ill, he needed a doctor! Go on, girl,
hurry! You'll find one somewhere in the damned place. Wait a minute,
ask the landlady--wake her up and ask which the nearest doctor is! Tell
him he must come at once. If he won't, ring up another--a delay may
make all the difference. Good God! why did I have him down here?"
The waiting threatened to be endless. A basin of water was on the
washhand-stand, and he plunged his head into it. The stir of awakening
life was heard in the quietude. Through the window came the clatter
of feet in a neighbouring yard, the rattle of a pail on stone. He
contemplated the child, conscience-stricken by his own condition, and
strove to allay his anxiety by repeated questions, to which he obtained
peevish and unsatisfactory replies.
It was more than two hours before the girl returned. She was
accompanied by a medical man who seemed resentful. Carew watched his
examination breathlessly.
"Is it serious?"
"It looks like diphtheria; it's early yet to say. He's got a first-rate
constitution; that's one thing. Mother a good physique?... So I should
have thought! Are you a resident?"
"I'm an actor; I'm in an engagement here; my wife's abroad. Why do you
ask?"
"The child had better be removed--there's danger of infection with
diphtheria; lodgings won't do. Take him to the hospital, and have him
properly looked after. It'll be best for him in every way."
"I'm much obliged for your advice," said Carew. But the idea was
intimidating. "I shall be here, myself, for another week at least," he
added, in allusion to the fee. "Is it safe to move him, do you think?"
"Oh yes, no need to fear that. Wrap him up, and take him away in a fly
this morning. The sooner the better.... That's all right. Good-day."
He departed briskly, with an appetite for breakfast.
"Archie will have a nice drive," said Carew in a tone of dreary
encouragement--"a nice drive in a carriage with papa."
"I'm sleepy," said the child.
"A nice drive in the sunshine, and see the sea. Nursie will put on your
clothes."
"I don't want!"
His efforts to resist strengthened Carew's dislike to the proposed
arrangement. It was not in the first few minutes that this abrupt
presentment of the hospital recalled to the man's mind Mary's
connection with it; and when the connection flashed upon him his
spirits lightened. If the boy had to be laid up, away from his mother's
relatives in London, the mischance could hardly occur under happier
conditions than where----The reflection faded to a question-point.
_Would_ she be of use? Could he expect, or dare to ask for tenderness
from Mary Brettan--and to the other woman's child? He doubted it.
In the revulsion of feeling that followed that leaping hope, he almost
determined to withhold the request. Many children were safe in a
hospital; why not his own child? He would pay for everything. And then
the thought of Archie forsaken among strangers made him tremble; and
the little form seemed to him, in its lassitude, to have become smaller
still, more fragile.
Again and again, in the jolting cab, he debated an appeal to Mary,
wrestling with shame for the sake of his boy. Without knowing what she
could do, he was sensible that her interest would be of value. He clung
passionately to the idea of leaving the hospital with the knowledge
that it contained a friend, an individual who would spare to the child
something more than the patient's purchased and impartial due.
The cab stopped with a jerk, and he carried him into the empty
waiting-room. It was a gaunt, narrow apartment on the ground-floor,
with an expanse of glass, like the window of a shop, overlooking
the street. He put him in a corner of one of the forms against the
walls, and, pending the appearance of the house-surgeon, murmured
encouragement. The minutes lagged. It occurred to him that the ailment
might be pronounced trivial, but the hope deserted him almost as it
came, banished by the surroundings. The bare melancholy of the walls
chilled him anew, and the suggestion of poverty about the place
intensified his misgivings. He thought he would speak to her. If she
refused, it would have done no harm. And she would not refuse, she was
too good. Yes, she had always been a good woman. He remembered----
The door-knob turned, and he rose in the presence of Kincaid. The eyes
of the two men met questioningly.
"Your child?" said Kincaid, advancing.
"Yes; it's his neck. I was advised to bring him here, because I'm only
in lodgings. I'd like----"
"Let me see!"
Carew resumed his seat. His gaze hung on the doctor's movements;
every detail twanged his nerves. A nurse was called in to take the
temperature. He watched her with suspense, and smiled feebly at the
child across her arm.
"Diphtheritic throat. We'll put him to bed at once. Take him away,
Nurse--put him into a special ward."
"I should like----" said Carew huskily; "I know one of the nurses here.
Might I see her?"
"Yes, certainly. Which one?"
"Her name is 'Brettan--Mary Brettan.'" He stooped to pat the tearful
face, and missed Kincaid's surprise. "If I might see her now----?"
"Ask if Nurse Brettan can come down, please! Say she is wanted in the
waiting-room."
A brief pause ensued. The closing of the door left them alone. The
father's imagination pursued the figures that had disappeared;
Kincaid's was busy with the fact of the man's being an acquaintance
of Mary's--the only acquaintance that had crossed his path. Surprise
suggested his opening remark:
"You're a visitor here, you say? Your little son's sickness has come at
an unfortunate time for you."
"It has--yes, very. I'm at the theatre--and my apartments are none too
good."
He mentioned the address; the doctor made some formal inquiries. Carew
asked how often he would be permitted to see the boy; and when this was
arranged, silence fell again.
It was broken in a few seconds. The sound of a footstep on the stairs
was caught by them simultaneously. Simultaneously both men looked
round. The footsteps were succeeded by the faint rustle of a skirt, and
Nurse Brettan crossed the threshold. She started visibly--controlled
herself, and acknowledged Carew's greeting by a slight bow.
Kincaid, in a manner, presented him to her--courteously, constrainedly.
"This gentleman has been waiting to see you. I'll wish you
good-morning, sir."
Mary moved to the window, and stood there without speaking. In the
print and linen costume of the house she recalled with increased force
to Carew the time when he had seen her first.
"Archie has got diphtheria," he said; "he's just been taken upstairs."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Why have you asked for me?"
"They told me I couldn't keep him at home--that I must bring him
here.... Mary, you will do what you can for him?"
She raised her head calmly.
"He is sure of careful nursing," she answered; "no patient is
neglected."
"I know. I know all that. I thought that you----"
"I'm not in the children's ward," she said; "there isn't anything _I_
can do."
He looked at her dumbly. Mere indifference his agitation would have
found vent in combating, but the conclusiveness of the reply left him
nothing to urge.
"I must be satisfied without you, then," he said at last. "I thought of
you directly."
"He'll have every attention; you needn't doubt that."
"Such a little chap--among strangers!"
"We have very young children in the wards."
"And perhaps to be dangerously ill!"
"You must try to hope for the best."
"Ah, you speak like the hospital nurse to me!" he cried; "I was
remembering the woman."
"I speak as what I am," she returned coldly; "I am one of the nurses. I
have no remembrances, myself."
"You could remember this week, when we met again. And once you wouldn't
have found it so impossible to spare a minute's kindness to my boy!"
She moved towards the door, paler, but self-contained.
"I must go now," she said; "I can't stay away long."
"You choose to forget only when something is asked of you!"
"I have told you," she said, turning, "that it is out of my power to do
anything."
"And you are glad you can say it!"
"Perhaps. No reminder of my old disgrace is pleasant to me."
"Your reformation is very complete," he answered bitterly; "the woman I
used to know would have been unable to retaliate upon a helpless child."
The sting of the retort roused her to refutation. Her hand, extended
towards the door, dropped to her side; she faced him swiftly.
"You find me what you made me," she said with white lips. "I neither
retaliate nor pity. What is your wife's child to me, that you ask me to
care for it? If I'm hard, it was you who taught me to be hard before he
was born."
"It's _my_ child I asked you to care for. And I brought myself to ask
it because he's my dearest thing on earth. I thank God to learn he
won't be in your charge!"
She shivered, and for a moment looked at him intently. Then her eyelids
drooped, and she left him without a word.
She went out into the corridor--her hand was pressed against her
breast. But her duties were not immediately resumed. She made her way
into the children's wing, moving with nothing of indecision in her
manner, but like one who proceeds to fulfil a purpose. The two rows of
beds left a passage down the floor, and she scanned the faces till she
reached the nurses' table.
By chance, she spoke to the nurse that Kincaid had summoned.
"There's a boy just been brought in with diphtheria, Sophie; do you
know where he is?"
"Yes, I'm going back to him in a minute. He's in a special ward."
"Let me see him!"
"Have you got permission?"
"No."
Nurse Gay hesitated.
"I shall get into trouble," she said. "Why don't you ask for it?"
"I don't want to wait; I want to see him now."
"I've been in hot water once this week already----"
"Sophie, I know the mite, and--and his people. I _must_ go in to him!"
The girl glanced at her keenly.
"Oh, if it's like that!" she said. "It's only a wigging--go!" And she
told her where he was.
He lay alone in the simple room, when Mary entered--a diminutive
patient for whom the narrow cot looked large. The nurse had been
showing him a picture-book, and this yawned loosely on the quilt, where
it had slid from his listless hold. At the sound of Mary's approach,
he turned. But he did not recognise her. A doubtful gaze appraised her
intentions.
At first she did not speak. She stooped over the pillow, smoothing and
re-smoothing it mechanically, a hand trembling closer to the disordered
curls. Her own gaze deepened and hung upon him; her lips parted. Her
hands crept timidly nearer. Her face was bent till her mouth was
yielding kisses on his cheek. She yearned over him through wet lashes,
a wondering smile always on her face.
"Archie," she murmured; "Archie, baby-boy, is it comfy for you? Won't
you see the pictures--all the pretty people in the book?"
"Not nice pictures," he complained.
"You shall have nicer ones this afternoon," she said; "this afternoon,
when I go out. Let me show you these now! Look, here's a little boy in
bed, like you! His name was 'Archie,' too; and one day his papa took
him to a big house, where papa had friends, and----
"Papa! I _want_ papa!"
"Oh, my darling," she said, "papa is coming! He'll come very, very
soon. The other little boy wanted papa as well, and he wasn't happy at
first at all. But in the big house everybody was so kind, and glad to
have Archie there, that presently he thought it a treat to stop. It was
so nice directly that it was better than being at home. They gave him
toys, lots and lots of toys; and there were oranges and puddings--it
was beautiful!"
She could not remain, she was needed elsewhere; and when Kincaid made
his round she was on duty. But she ascertained developments throughout
the day, and by twilight she knew that the child was grievously ill.
She did not marvel at her interest; it engrossed her to the exclusion
of astonishment. If she was surprised at all, it was that Carew could
have believed in her neutrality. Yet she was thankful that he had
believed in it; and at the same time, rejoiced that his first impulse
had been to put faith in her good heart. She did not analyse her
sympathy, ashamed of the cause from which it sprang. When she had
gazed, during the intervening years, at the faded photograph, she had
reproached herself and wept; now it all seemed natural. She sought
neither to reason nor to euphemise. The feeling was spontaneous, and
she went with it. She called it by no wrong word, because she called
it nothing. She was borne as it carried her, blindly, unresistingly,
without pausing to name it, or to define its source. It seemed natural.
She inquired about Archie when she had risen next morning, and a little
later, contrived another flying visit to the room. But he was now too
ill to notice her.
In the afternoon, Carew came again. She learnt it while he was there,
and gathered something of his wretchedness. She heard how he besieged
the nurse with questions: "Had she seen so bad a case before--well,
often before? Had those who recovered been so young as Archie? Was
there nothing else that could be tried?" She listened, with her head
bowed, imagining the scene that she could not enter; deploring,
remembering, re-living--praying for "Tony's child."
Not till the man had gone, however, was everything related to her.
She was sitting at the extremity of the ward, sewing, shortly to be
free for the night. It was the hour when the quiet of the hospital
deepened into the hush that preluded the extinction of the patients'
lights. The supper-trays had long since been removed from the bedsides.
Through the apertures of curtain, a few patients, loath to waive
the privilege while they held it, were to be seen reading books and
magazines; others were asleep already, and even the late-birds of the
ward who dissipated in wheel-chairs, to the envy of the rest, had made
their final excursion for the day. The Major had stopped his chair to
utter his last wish for "a comfortable night, sir." The chess champion
had concluded his conquest on a recumbent adversary's quilt. Where
breakfast comes at six o'clock, grown men resume some of the customs
of their infancy, and the day that begins so early closes soon. It was
very peaceful, very still; and she was sitting in the lamp-rays, sewing.
She looked round as the Matron joined her. It was known that the case
interested her, and in subdued tones they spoke of it.
"How is he?"
"He's been dreadfully bad. The worst took place before the father left;
Dr. Kincaid had to come up."
"What?--tell me!"
"He had to perform tracheotomy. The father was there all the time; Dr.
Kincaid told him what was going to be done, but he wouldn't go. The
child was blue in the face and there wasn't any stopping to argue. When
the cut in the throat was made and the tube put in, I thought the man
was going to faint. He was standing just by me. 'Good God! Is this an
experiment?' he said. I told him it was the only way for the child to
breathe, but he didn't seem to hear me. And when the fit of coughing
came--oh, my goodness! You know what the coughing's like?"
"Go on!"
"He made sure it was all over; he burst out sobbing, and the doctor
ordered him out of the room. 'If you're fond of your child, keep quiet
here, sir,' he said, 'or go and compose yourself outside!' I think he
was sorry he'd spoken so sternly afterwards, though he was quite right,
for----"
"Oh!" shuddered Mary. "Did you see him again?"
"Yes; I told him he'd had no business to stop. He said, 'If the worst
happens, I shall think it right I was there.' I said he must try to
believe that only the best would happen now; though whether I ought to
have said it I don't know. When it comes to tracheotomy in diphtheria,
the child's chance is slim. Still, this one's as fine a little chap as
ever I saw; he's got the strength of many a pair we get here--and the
man was in such a state. He's coming back to-night--he's to see _me_,
anyhow; he had to hurry off to the theatre to act. I can't imagine how
he'll get through."
"I must go! I must go to the ward!" She rose, clasping her hands
convulsively. "I can, can't I? It's Nurse Mainwaring's time to relieve
me--why isn't she here?"
The Matron calmed her.
"Hush! you can go as soon as she comes. Don't take on like that, or
I shall be sorry I told you. Nurse Bradley has complained of feeling
ill--I expect that's what it is."
Mary raised a faint smile, deprecating her vehemence.
"I'm very fond of the boy," she said, with apology in her voice. "It
was very kind of you to tell me; I thank you very much."
Nurse Mainwaring appeared now.
"Nurse Bradley can't get up, madam," she announced.
"Nonsense! what is it?"
"A sick-headache; she can't see out of her eyes."
It was the moment of dismay in which a hospital realises that its
staff, too, is flesh and blood--the hitch in the human machinery.
"Then we're short-handed to-night. You relieve here, Nurse Mainwaring?"
"Yes, madam."
"And Nurse Gay--who should relieve her?"
"Nurse Bradley."
"_I'll_ relieve her," cried Mary; "I'd like to!"
"You need your night's rest as much as most. And there's no napping
with trachy--it means watching all the time."
"I shan't nap; I shan't want to. Somebody must lose her night's
rest--why not I?"
"I think we can manage without you."
"It'll be a favour to me--I'm thankful for the chance."
"Well, then, you shall halve it with someone. You can take the first
half, and----"
"No, no," she urged, "that's rough on the other and not enough for me.
Give it me all!"
The Matron yielded:
"Nurse Brettan relieves Nurse Gay!"
In the room the boy lay motionless as if already dead. From the mouth
breath no longer passed; only by holding a hand before the orifice of
the tube inserted in the throat could one detect that he now breathed
at all. As Mary took the seat by his side, the force of professional
training was immediately manifest. She had begged for the extra work
with almost feverish excitement; she entered upon it collected and
self-controlled. A stranger would have said: "A conscientious woman,
but experience has blunted her sensibilities."
On the table were some feathers. With these, from time to time
throughout the night, she had to keep the tube free from obstruction.
Even the briefest indulgence to drowsiness was impossible. Unwavering
attention to the state of the passage that admitted air to the lungs
was not merely important, the necessity was vital. A continuous, an
inflexible vigilance was required. It was to this that the nurse,
already worn by the usual duties of the day, had pledged herself in
place of the absentee.
At half-past nine she had cleansed the tube twice. At ten o'clock
Kincaid came in.
"I am relieving Nurse Gay," she said, rising; "Nurse Bradley's head is
very bad."
He went to the bed and ascertained that all was well.
"It'll be very trying for you; wasn't there anyone to divide the work?"
"I wanted to do it all myself."
"Ah, yes, I understand; you know the father."
It was the only reference that he had made to the father's asking for
her, and she was sensible of inquiry in his tone. She nodded. And,
alone together for the first time since her appointment, they stood
looking at Carew's child.
She had no wish to speak. On him the situation imposed restraint.
But to be with her thus had a charm, for all that. It was not to be
uttered, not to be dwelt on, but, due in part to the prevailing silence
of the house, there was an illusion of confidential intercourse that he
had not felt with her here before.
While they looked, the boy gave a quick gasp. The tube had become
clogged.
She started and threw out her hand towards the feathers. But Kincaid
had picked one up already, favoured by his position.
"All right!" he said; "I'll free it."
He leant over the pillow, feather in hand. She watched him with eyes
widening in terror, for she saw that his endeavours were futile and he
could not free it.
The waxen placidity of the upturned face vanished as she watched.
It regained the signs of life to struggle with the gripe of
death--distorted in an instant, and distorted frightfully. The average
woman would have wept aloud. The nurse, to all intents and purposes,
preserved her calmness still.
It was Kincaid who gave the first token of despondence.
"The thing's blocked!" he exclaimed; "I can't clear it!"
His voice had the repressed despair of a surgeon, who is an enthusiast,
too, opposed by a higher force. Under the test of his defeat her
composure broke down. Confronted by a danger in which her interest was
vivid and personal she--as the father had done before her--became
agitated and unstrung.
"You must," she said. "Doctor, for Heaven's sake!"
He was trying still, but with scant success.
"I'm doing my best; it seems no good."
"You must save this life," she repeated.
"You will?"
"I tell you I can't do any more."
"You will--you shall!" she persisted wildly. The very passion of
motherhood suffused her features. "Doctor, it is _his_ child!"
He looked at her--their gaze met, even then. It was only in a flash.
Abruptly the gasps of the dying baby became horrible to witness. The
eyeballs rolled hideously, and seemed as if they would spring from
their sockets. The tiny chest heaved and fell in agonising efforts to
gain air, while in its convulsive battle against suffocation the frail
body almost lifted itself from the mattress.
"Go away," said the man; "there's nothing you can do."
She refused to stir. She appealed to him frantically.
"Help him!" she stammered.
"There's no way."
"You, the doctor, tell me there's no way?"
"None."
"But _I_ know there _is_ a way," she cried; "I can suck that tube!"
"Mary! My God! it might kill you!"
She flung forward, but the conflict ceased as he pulled her back. A
small quantity of the mucus had been dislodged by the paroxysm that
it had produced. Nature had done--imperfectly, but still done--what
science had failed to effect. The boy breathed.
The outbreak was followed by complete exhaustion, and again it seemed
that life was extinct. Kincaid assured himself that it lingered still,
and turned to her gravely.
"You were about to do a wicked, and a foolish thing. After what it has
gone through, nothing under Heaven can save the child; you ought to
know as much as that. At best you could only hope to prolong life for
two or three hours."
Tears were dripping down her cheeks.
"'Only!'" she said; "do you think that's nothing to me? An hour longer,
and his father will be here--to find him living, or dead. Do you
suppose I can't imagine--do you suppose I can't feel--what _he_ feels,
there on the stage, counting the seconds to release? In an hour the
curtain 'll be down and he'll have rushed here praying to be in time.
If it were revealed that I should do nothing but prolong the life by
sacrificing my own, I'd sacrifice it! Gladly, proudly--yes, proudly, as
God hears! You could never have prevented me--nothing should prevent
me. I'd risk my life ten times rather than he should arrive too late."
"This," drearily murmured the man who loved her, "is the return you
would make for his sin?"
"No," she said; "it is the atonement I would offer for mine."
He stood dumbly at the head of the cot; the woman trembled at the foot.
But they saw the change next minute simultaneously. Once more the
passage had become hopelessly clogged. With a broken cry, she rushed to
the cot's vacant side. This time he could not pull her back. He spoke.
"Stop! Nurse Brettan, I order you to leave the ward!"
The voice was imperative, and an instant she wavered; but it was the
merest instant. The woman had vanquished the nurse, and the woman
was the stronger now. A glance she threw of mingled supplication and
defiance, and, casting herself on the bed, she set her lips to the
tube.