When the business of the market was done, and Anne reached the Union, it
was late in the afternoon. The roads outside the town were full of
farmers returning from the market, of women walking with empty baskets,
and an occasional small herd of cattle, being driven away from the
terrifying experience of the town, by a purchaser. It was visiting-day
at the Union, and here and there from the out-going stream, a man or
woman of middle-age turned aside to enter the gate of the big brick
building, in whose side-garden men were working, dressed in the
bottle-green corduroy of the institution.
The presence of spring seemed to surge about the bare building. The
trees planted about it were old, and belonged to an older building which
protruded from the back; the weather-stained wall was old also, and the
sunlight, older than either, shone with an urgent warmth beneath the
heavy green shade. Rows of green blades were appearing in the border,
set aside for ornament. The air, the clouds, the light near the ground,
all seemed alive with the peculiar revival only felt in the spring.
Anne was admitted with others to the corridor, and left while they
turned to the places they sought.
"She might see the Matron," said the porter, going along with a clatter
of his feet to the far end of the corridor and knocking at a door. The
Matron almost immediately emerged carrying a large key.
"It was very sad, wasn't it?" she began at once. "It happened night
before last. It's a fine boy, though it's a bit too soon. One of the
young women's got him." She led the way to the wide front stairs and
began to ascend. Stopping at a half-open door, she entered and Anne
followed.
It was a smaller room than the big ward, and sunny. It had an air of
privacy, of comfort given by the sunshine only, for it was uncarpeted,
and bare like the others. Four young women were sewing the stiff linsey
skirts worn in the Union.
"How's the baby?" said the Matron.
"Asleep," replied a good-looking, blond young woman, rising willingly
from her work and going over to the window, beneath which was a
wicker-cradle covered with a shawl. She drew back the shawl, and Anne
saw lying on one cheek on the pillow, the tiny, fuzzy, misshapen head
and creased purple fist of a new baby. The confidence of that tiny
breathing creature lying asleep seemed strange to Anne, who knew how
desolate it was. It had already, as it were, taken possession of its
place in the world, and had no intention of being dislodged.
"He's a healthy little thing," said the Matron.
"Greedy too," said the blond young woman, with a laugh.
"Could I look at Jane?" asked Anne.
"They fastened it up this afternoon," replied the Matron. "There'll be
two funerals to-morrow. The other's an old man. You can see all there is
to see."
She covered the baby and left the room, descending the same stairs, and
going out of a side door. A strong smell of disinfectants came out into
the warm garden as she opened the door of a glazed brick building. The
blinds were down to keep out the sun. The building was lined with white
glazed brick, and two straight burdens lay on a trestle-table.
"Eight o'clock to-morrow," said the Matron, coming out again and locking
the door.
Jane had gone. She was as confident as the baby in her absence. It was
that which impressed Anne. Neither of the two so lately one flesh,
needed or cared for the other. Jane seemed to have shut herself of her
own accord in that wooden case, so that she would be no longer teased or
tortured, and the baby was quite happy that it should be so. Their
disregard one of the other was strange to Anne.
"Elizabeth Richardson was inquiring if you were coming," said the
Matron. "Will you go up and see her?"
Elizabeth Richardson was lying in the bed that had been Jane's. She
looked less peevish and more tended. Anne glanced at the fireplace as
she entered. The armchair had been moved back, and no one sat at the
fire. She sighed and turned to Elizabeth.
"Yes, it's very comfortable," said Elizabeth. "I'm glad I came. It's
nice to have the bed made every day. You'll have heard that Jane Evans
is out of her troubles?"
Anne nodded.
"It's best, I think," said Elizabeth. "The world's none too kind, and
she was a depending sort of girl. She got out of it easy enough.
There'll be some disappointed though," she added with her old cynicism.
"Don't let's be hard in our judgments," said Anne, sadly.