"I must go, darling. I"ll come back soon."
Jean"s head moved slightly on the pillow, but the movement was away from him, not nearer. She spoke no word.
Nurse Emma moved about the room, performing necessary duties in the deft, noiseless manner of her kind. From time to time she cast a curious glance at the still face on the pillow. "Poor thing! Too weak, no doubt, to take it in! Yet she had seemed excited at the thought of the boy. A pity, after such a hard time, but there would be plenty more."
She shook out some dainty, lace-frilled garments before the fire, and approached the bed, judiciously cheerful.
"Now, it is six o"clock! You are so much better this afternoon--what do you say? Could you fancy a nice cup of tea?"
Jean opened her eyes, and looked at her. It was not a look, it was a glare; the grey eyes were dry, tearless, blazing. At the sight Nurse Emma was positively shaken with surprise.
"Oh, my dear, don"t look at me like that! It was not my fault. We did our best for you--more than our best. I never saw Dr Erroll so anxious. You owe your life to him. It"s sad, of course; a great disappointment, but you are so young, and you have your good husband.
You mustn"t fret."
"I am not fretting."
"Not? What then? You look--"
"Furious! I"m furious. I have been cheated. It"s not fair."
"Oh, my dear! Don"t talk like that. These things happen, you know.
You"re not the first. We all have our troubles, and you are pulling round so nicely. There was a time when we feared for you, too. You must be thankful that your life was spared for your poor husband"s sake.
It"s been most trying for him, with your weakness, and the funeral, and all. Come now, have a little cry. It will do you good. Then you shall have some tea."
Jean glared at her again--glared with an intensity that was almost hatred.
"You are a foolish woman," she said coldly. "You have no right to be a nurse. Go away!"
Nurse Emma bit her lip and went back to her seat by the fire. Really!
But it was her duty to ignore the outbursts of irritable patients, and preserve an unruffled calm, and she honestly strove to live up to her creed. Half an hour later she renewed her offer of tea. When her second and third attempt alike failed to produce any response, she determined once more to summon the husband to second her efforts.
Outside the bedroom door was a small square landing, the sort of landing, unworthy the name of hall, which one finds in most small, middle-cla.s.s houses. The gas was not yet lighted, and it had a dreary, depressing air. Before the window, gazing blankly into the street, stood Robert Gloucester, every line of his body eloquent of fatigue and depression. Nurse Emma looked at him sympathetically; but her first thought was for her patient.
"I think you had better go to Mrs Gloucester, sir. I can"t get her to eat. The food is ready on the table. Perhaps she will take it for you."
Robert pa.s.sed her without a word, shutting the door behind him. Jean stared at him across the room.
"Darling! Nurse is distressed that you won"t eat. She has sent me to persuade you."
"She is a stupid woman--stupid and heartless. She has no right to be a nurse."
"Don"t say that, dear. She has nursed you well--been most devoted. For three nights she has not had off her clothes."
Jean"s upper lip curled in scorn. A strong, self-contained woman, who had lost three nights" rest in performance of her paid duty. Three nights! For how many weary months had she herself missed her sleep, dreading the night, dreading the day, travelling wearily nearer and nearer a martyrdom of pain, and now--nothing! Hungry arms, hungry heart, incredible disappointment! She pushed aside the offered cup with impatient hand.
"I don"t want it. It would choke me."
"But you are so weak; you will be worse again. For my sake, sweetheart!"
"No! I am better. You can see for yourself. I feel really stronger."
And strange as it appeared, Jean spoke the truth. In some mysterious fashion the flood of anger coursing through her body seemed to have brought with it fresh life and energy. The tone of her voice was clearer, a tinge of colour showed on her cheeks. She looked her husband in the face with cold, challenging eyes.
"You took away my baby--my baby, and hid him for ever, without letting me have one sight of his face! Was that just? Was that fair? Does a woman wait all those months to be cheated at the end? It was a cruel thing to do."
"But you were ill. Your own life was in danger. It would have killed you to be roused to hear that news. If you think it over, dear, you will understand."
"It"s easy to talk. You saw him. You can remember. I can"t."
Robert"s face twitched. Yes! he remembered. All his life he would remember the small, dank face of his first-born--that pitiful image, so cruelly unlike the cherub of Jean"s dreams. He had another memory also--the memory of a grey, rainy morning when he stood by his son"s grave in the dreary city cemetery, while his wife lay unconscious at home, grudging each moment in his longing to be back beside her-- dreading to return to hear a worse report. Jean had been spared more than she knew--more than she would ever guess, for no word of his would enlighten her. It was not Robert Gloucester"s custom to speak of his own woes.
He sat by the bed holding Jean"s slack hand, gazing at her with wistful, puzzled eyes. He loved her as surely no man had loved a woman before, but he could not comfort her. That was the tragic, the inexplicable fact. In the first great sorrow of life she thrust him aside. It was terribly hard for her, poor darling; a crushing blow, _but_ there was still so much for which to be thankful. Her own life was spared; they were given back to each other"s love. Could she not realise, and be consoled?
Poor Robert! As well expect the dead child to rise from its grave as Jean to develop patience in the crash of her first great grief. If she had fallen from one deep faint to another, if she had hysterically cried and sobbed, he could have understood and sympathised; but this bitter cry of rebellion was beyond his comprehension. At the moment when he most longed to draw near, the great barrier of temperament shut him out from his wife"s heart.
The darkness deepened in the room; the face of Jean on the pillow became dim and blurred, her hand lay slack and unresponsive in his grasp.
Robert sat silent, his whole being expended in a prayer for strength and wisdom--for the power to say the right word to meet his wife"s needs.
"Beloved," he whispered softly. "Be patient! Be content with me a little longer. There will be others..."
But what woman fresh from her fiery trial can take comfort in that thought? With a cry of pain Jean wrenched away her hand.
"Oh, you don"t, you _don"t_ understand! I want Vanna--I want a woman.
Send Vanna to me."
So once again he had said the wrong thing.
Vanna crept in through the doorway, and knelt down by Jean"s side. The gas was lighted now, turned up just high enough to make visible the various objects in the room, without dazzling the patient"s eyes. Those eyes were raised with strained appeal to the other girl"s face, as if mutely asking help.
Here was another woman, a woman who loved her, a woman who would never have a child of her own. Would she understand? What words of comfort would she offer in her turn?
But Vanna said no words. She laid her face down on Jean"s hand, and the hot tears poured from her eyes. The trembling of her form shook the bed, and Jean trembled in response. A spasm of weakness threatened her, but she would not succ.u.mb. She pressed her lips together, and stared fixedly with burning eyes. Was this the "little cry" which was to act as the prelude to the "nice cup of tea"? What comfort had Vanna to offer?
"Well!" she said in that cold, faint voice which sounded so poor an echo of her usual full, musical tones. "Well! what have you to say? I sent for you, you know. My baby is dead. He is _dead_. I have no baby. It has been all useless, for nothing! Nothing is left--"
"Jean! Jean! My poor little Jean!"
"Is that all you have to say? You ought to tell me to be brave, to be brave and not fret. I am not the first person!... Can you believe it, Vanna; _can_ you? That little chest of drawers is full of his things.
I"ve st.i.tched at them for months, and dreamt of him with every st.i.tch.
I"ve turned them over a hundred times, waiting, looking forward to to-day. There"s his cot in the corner, and his little bath. It"s all ready--but he is not here. My baby is dead. They took him away, and hid him where I can never see. Think of it, Vanna! all those months, and never even to see his face. To have had a little son, and never to have touched him, given him one kiss--"
"Poor little mother! Poor little hungry mother. Oh, my poor Jean."
Jean shut her eyes, and pressed her head against the pillow.
"Vanna, Vanna! How shall I bear it? I was so happy, so content; I wanted nothing but Robert, and then _this_ came. I had never been ill before--it was dreadful to be ill, but I looked forward: you know how I looked forward. I thought and thought; it seemed at last as if one thought of nothing else. It grew so real, so near; it filled one"s heart, and then--_nothing_! nothing but pain and loss. You don"t understand; you can"t guess the horror of it--the baffled, incredible horror. You"ll never know it, Vanna. Thank G.o.d for that! When you grieve because you can never marry, remember this day, and what you have escaped. My little son, that I shall never see! What can you say to me, Vanna? What can you say to comfort me?"