It was the work of a moment. Almost as he started forward to restrain
her, she had raised herself, and, burying her face in a handkerchief,
leant, shaking, against the wall.
Kincaid gazed at her, white and stern, and a tense silence followed,
broken by her.
"You can have me dismissed," she said--"he will see his child!"
He answered nothing. The cruelty of the speech which ignored and
perverted everything outside the interests of the man by whom she
had been wronged seemed the last blow that his pain could have to
bear. A sense of the inequality and injustice of life's distribution
overwhelmed him. Viewed in the light of her defeated enemy, he felt as
broken, as far from power or dignity, as if the imputation had been
just.
She resumed her seat; and, waiting as long as duty still required, he
at last made some remark. She replied constrainedly. The intervention
of the pause was demonstrated by their tones, which sounded flat and
dull. He was thankful when he could go; and his departure was not less
welcome to the woman. To her reactionary weakness the removal of
supervision came as balm. He went from her heavily, and she drew her
chair yet closer to the bedside.
Tony would see his boy! She had no other settled thought, excepting the
reluctant one that she would meet him when he came. The reflection that
he would hear of her share in the matter gladdened her scarcely at all;
indeed, when she contemplated his enlightenment, she was perturbed. He
would learn that his initial faith in her had been justified, and he
would be sorry, piteously sorry, for all the hard words that he had
used. But by _her_ there was little to be gained; what she had done
had been for him. She found it even a humiliation that her act would
be known to him--a humiliation which his gratitude would do nothing to
decrease. She looked at the watch that she had pawned for the rent of
her garret after his renunciation of her, and determined the length of
time before he could arrive.
The stress of the last few minutes could not be suffered to beget any
abatement of wariness. But by degrees, as the reverberation of the
outburst faded, she felt more tranquil than she had done since the
Matron joined her earlier in the evening; and the vigil was continued
with undiminished care. Archie would die, but now Tony would be
present. The closing moments would not pass while he was simulating
misery or mirth on a stage. Horror of the averted fate, more dreadful
to a woman's mind even than to the father's own, made the brief
protraction appear an almost priceless boon.
It was possible for him to be here already; not likely, perhaps, so
soon as this, but possible, supposing that the piece "played quick" and
that a cab had been ordered to await him at the door. She listened for
the roll of wheels in the distance, but the silence was undisturbed.
Archie was lying as calm as when she had entered. If no further
impediment occurred, to exhaust the remaining strength more speedily,
it seemed safe to think that he might last two hours.
Her misgivings as to her risk were slight. The danger she had run
might prove fatal; but the thing had been done with impunity at least
once before--she remembered hearing of it. While we have our health,
the contingency of sickness appears to us more remote from ourselves
than from our neighbours; in her own case, a serious result looked
exceedingly improbable. She regarded the benefit of her temerity as
cheaply bought. None knew better than she, however, how much completive
attention was called for, what alertness of eye and hand was essential
afterwards; and, sitting there, her gaze was fastened on the boy as if
she sought to hearken to every flutter of his pulse.
Now a cab did approach; she held her breath as it rattled near. It
stopped, she fancied, before the hospital gate. Still with her stare
riveted on the unconscious child, she strained her ears for the
confirmatory tread. The seconds ticked away, swelling to minutes, but
no footstep fell. The hope had been a false one! Presently the cab
was heard again, driving away. She began to be distressed, alarmed.
Making allowance for a too sanguine calculation, it was time that
he was here!... The delay was unaccountable; no conjecture could be
formed as to its extent. Her fingers were laced and unlaced in her
lap nervously. She imagined the rumble of wheels in the soughing of
the wind, alternately intent and discomfited. The faint slamming of
a cottage-door startled her to expectation. In the profundity of the
hush that spread with every subsidence of sound, she seemed to hear the
throbbing of her heart.
Out in the town a clock struck twelve, and apprehension verged upon
despair. The eyes fixed on the boy were desperate now; she leant over
him to contest the advent of the end shade by shade. So far no change
was shown; Tony's fast dwindling chance was not yet lost. "God, God!
Send him quick!" she prayed. Racked with impatience, tortured by the
fear that what she had done might, after all, be unavailing, she strove
to devise some theory to uphold her. Debarred from venting her suspense
in action, she found the constraint of her posture almost physical
pain.
The clock boomed the hour of one. It swept suddenly across her mind
that the Matron had been doubtful of letting him proceed to the ward on
his return: he must have come and gone! She had been reaching forward,
and her arm remained extended vaguely. Consternation engulfed her. If
during ten seconds she thought of anything but her neglect to ensure
his being admitted, she thought she felt the blood in her freezing
from head to foot. He had come and gone!--she was thwarted by her own
oversight. Defeat paralysed the woman.... Her exploit now assumed an
aspect of grievous hazard, enhanced by its futility. She lifted herself
faint at soul. Her services were instinctive, mechanical; she resumed
them, she was assiduous and watchful; but she appeared to be prompted
by some external influence, with her brain benumbed.
All at once a new thought thrilled her stupor. She heard the stroke of
three, and the boy was still alive! The ungovernable hope shook her
back to sensation. She told herself that the hope was wild, fantastic,
that she would be mad to harbour it, but excitement shivered in her;
she was strung with the intensity of what she hesitated to own. Every
second that might bring the end and yet withheld it, fanned the hope
feebly; the passage of each slow, dragging minute stretched suspense
more taut. She dreaded the quiver of her lashes that veiled his face
from view, as if the spark of life might vanish as her eyelids fell.
Between eternities, the distant clock rang forth the quarters of the
hour across the sleeping town, and at every quarter she gasped "Thank
God!" and wondered would she thank Him by the next. Hour trailed into
hour. The boy lingered still. Haggard, she tended and she watched. The
dreariness of daybreak paled the blind before the bed. The blind grew
more transparent, and hope trembled on. There was the stir of morning,
movement in the street; dawn touched them wanly, and hope held her yet.
And sunrise showed him breathing peacefully once more--and then she
knew that Heaven had worked a miracle and the child would live.
* * * * *
Among the staff that case is cited now and still the nurses tell how
Mary Brettan saved his life. The local _Examiner_ gave the matter a
third of a column, headed "Heroism of a Hospital Nurse." And, cut down
to five lines, it was mentioned in the London papers. Mr. Collins, of
Pattenden's, glanced at the item, having despatched the youth of the
prodigious yawn with a halfpenny, and--remembering how the surname was
familiar--wondered for a moment what the woman was doing who could
never sell their books.
It was later in the morning that Carew entered the hospital, as Kincaid
crossed the hall. The porter heard the doctor's answer to a stammered
question:
"Your child is out of danger. I'm sorry to say Nurse Brettan risked her
life for him."
Then the visitor started, and stopped short hysterically, and the
doctor moved by, with his jaw set hard.
To Mary he had said little. He was confronted by a recovery that it had
been impossible to foresee, but his predominant emotion was terror of
its cost. From the Matron she heard of Carew's gratitude, and received
his message of entreaty to be allowed to see her. It was not delivered,
however, till she woke, and then he had gone; and by the morrow her
reluctance to have an interview had deepened. She contented herself
with the note that he sent: one written to say that he "could not
write--that in a letter he was unable to find words." She read it very
slowly, and it drooped to her lap, and she sat gazing at the wall. She
brushed the mist from her eyes, and read the lines again, and yet again
--long after she knew them all by heart.
Next day she rose with a strange stiffness in her throat. With her
descent to the ward, it increased. And she was frightened. But at first
she would not mention it, because she was loath for Kincaid to know.
She felt it awkward to draw breath; by noon the difficulty was not to
be concealed. She went to bed--protesting, but by Kincaid's command.
Nurse Brettan had become a patient. She said how queer it was to be
in the familiar room in this unfamiliar way. The nurse whose watch of
Archie she had relieved was chosen to attend on her; and Mary chaffed
her weakly on her task.
"It ought to be a good patient this spell, Sophie! If I'm a nuisance,
you may shake me."
But to Kincaid she spoke more earnestly now the danger-signal was
displayed.
"You did all you could to stop me, doctor. Whatever happens, you'll
remember that! You did everything that was right, and so did I."
"Don't talk rubbish about 'happenings,' Nurse!" he said; "we shall want
you to be up and at work again directly."
Nevertheless, she grew worse as the child grew stronger; and for a
fortnight the man who loved her suffered fiercer pain each time he
answered "Rubbish!" And the man whom she loved sought daily tidings of
her when he called to view the progress of his boy. She used to hear of
his inquiries and turn her face on the pillow, and lie for a long while
very quiet. Her distaste to meeting him had gone and she craved for him
to come to her. But now she could not bring herself to let him do it,
because her neck and face were so swollen and unsightly, and her voice
had dwindled to a whisper that was not nice to hear.
Then all hope was at an end--it was known that she was dying. And one
morning the nurse said to her:
"Perhaps this afternoon you'd like to see him? He has asked again."
"This afternoon?" Momentarily her eyes brightened, but the shame of
her unloveliness came back to her, and she sighed. "Give me ... the
glass, Sophie ... there's a dear!" She looked up at her reflection in
the narrow mirror held aslant over the bed. "No," she said feebly, "not
this afternoon. Perhaps tor morrow."
The girl put back the glass without speaking. And a gaze followed her
questioningly till she left.
When Kincaid came in, Mary asked him how long she had to live.
He was worn with a night of agony--a night whose marks the staff had
observed and wondered at.
"How long?" she asked; "I know I can't get better. When's it going to
be?" He clenched his teeth to curb the twitching of his mouth. "It
isn't _now_?"
"No, no," he said. "You shouldn't, you _mustn't_ frighten yourself like
this!"
"To-day?"
"Not to-day," he answered hoarsely, "I honestly believe."
"To-morrow?"
"Mary!"
"To-morrow?" she pleaded in the same painful whisper. "Tell me the
truth. What to-morrow?"
"I think--to-morrow you may know how much I loved you."
She did not move; and he had turned aside. He noticed it was raining
and how the drops spattered on the window-sill.
"I didn't see," she murmured; "I thought-you--had--forgotten."
"No," he said; "you never saw. It doesn't matter; I know now it would
never have been any use. Hush, dear; don't talk; it's so bad for you!"
"I'm sorry. But I was _his_ before you came. I couldn't. Could I?"
"No, of course. Don't worry; don't, for God's sake! There's nothing
to be sorry about. I must go to the next ward; I shall see you this
afternoon. Try to sleep a little, won't you?"
He went out, with a word to the nurse, who came back; and Mary lay
silent.
Presently she said:
"Sophie--yes, this afternoon,"
Something in the voice startled; the girl gulped before she spoke:
"All right! he shall hear as soon as he comes."
"Don't forget."
"I won't forget, chummy; you can feel quite sure about it."
"Thanks, Sophie. I'm so tired."
The rain was falling still. She heard it blowing against the panes,
and lay listening to it, wondering if it would keep him away. Then her
thoughts drifted; and she slept.
When Kincaid returned he took Sophie's place, and sat watching till the
figure stirred. The eyes opened at him vaguely.
"I've been asleep?"
"Yes."
"Is it very late?"
"It's about three, I think.... Just three."
"Ah!" she said with relief.
She closed her eyes again, and there was a long pause. He covered her
nerveless hand with his own.
"Don't grieve," she whispered; "it doesn't hurt."
"Oh, my dear, my dear! You, and my mother, too--helpless with both!"
"The many," she said faintly, "think of the many you've pulled through.
You've ... been very good to me ... very good."
To his despair it seemed that ever since they met she had been telling
him that. It was the dole that she had yielded, the atom that his
devotion had ever wrung from her--she found him "good"!
And even as she said it, her eagerness caught the footfall, that she
had been waiting for; and she nestled lower on the pillow, trying to
hide her disfigurement from view.
"Mary," said Kincaid, "you didn't care for me; but will you let me kiss
you on the forehead--while you know?"
A smile--a smile of tenderness wonderfully new and strange to him
irradiated her face; and, turning, he saw the other man had come in.
THE END