He undressed her, handling her with his clumsy gentleness, and laid her in her bed.

He had called the maid; she went bustling to and fro, loud-footed and wild-eyed. From time to time a cry came from the nursery where the little ones were left alone. Outside, down the street, Arty and Catty ran hand-in-hand to fetch the doctor, their sobbing checked by a mastering sense of their service and importance.

And the man, more helpless than any child, clung to the woman's hand and waited with her for her hour.

As he waited he looked round the shabby room, and saw for the first time how poor a place it was. Nothing seemed to have been provided for Aggie; nothing ever was provided for her; she was always providing things for other people. His eyes fastened on the Madonna di Gran Duca fading in her frame. He remembered how he had bought it for Aggie seven years ago. Aggie lay under the Madonna, with her eyes closed, making believe that she slept. But he could see by the fluttering of her eyelids that her spirit was awake and restless.

Presently she spoke.

"Arthur," she said, "I believe I'm going to have a nice quiet night, after all. But when--when the time comes, you're not to worry, do you hear? Kate and mother will come up and look after me. And you're to go away to-morrow, just as if nothing had happened."

She paused.

"The flannels," she said, "shall be washed and sent after you. You're not to worry."

She was providing still.

"Oh, Aggie--darling--don't."

"Why not? _You_ ought to go to bed, because you'll have to get up so early to-morrow morning."

She closed her eyes, and he watched and waited through minutes that were hours. It seemed to him that it was another man than he who waited and watched. He was estranged from his former self, the virtuous, laborious self that he had once known, moving in its dull and desolate routine.

Thoughts came to him, terrible, abominable thoughts that could never have occurred to it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Thoughts came to him, terrible thoughts"]

"It would have been better," said this new self, "if I had been unfaithful to her. _That_ wouldn't have killed her."

As if she had heard him through some spiritual sense, she pressed his hand and answered him.

"Thank G.o.d," she whispered, hoa.r.s.ely, "that you've always loved me."

She struggled with her voice for a moment; then it came, brave and clear.

"Listen, Arthur. I wrote to mother three weeks ago. About this. I've made her think that it was I who wanted the children, always, from the very first. She'll understand that I couldn't be happy without a baby in my arms. It _is_ different. They're never quite the same after the first year. Even Arty wasn't. Mother will understand. She won't be hard."

She had provided for everything. It was her lie that proved the extremity of her fear, her foreboding.

If only she had not lied!

Somehow, in the seven years of his married life, he had never seen this calamity in front of him. His dreams had always been of a time when their children should be out in the world, when he saw himself walking with his wife in some quiet country place, like Queningford.

If she had not lied!

He sought for calm words wherewith to support her; but no words came. He clutched at the bedclothes. His eyes were blind with tears, his ears deafened by the sound of his own pulses.

In a moment the seven years were unveiled. He had a sudden vision of Aggie's incorruptible love and divine tenderness before his grief closed over him.

Her eyes were resting upon his.

"I'm not afraid," she said; "not the least little bit. I'd rather you went away to-morrow. I don't--mind--being left."

But when to-morrow came it was he who was left.

He was sitting in the room underneath Aggie's. He had a pen in his hand, and his mind was unusually calm and clear. He had just telegraphed to his brother that he couldn't go--because Aggie was dead. Now he was trying to write to Aggie's mother to tell her to come--because Aggie was dead.

He had a great many things to see to--because Aggie was dead.

All at once he raised his head; he listened; he started up with a groan that was a cry, and went from the room.

Up-stairs in the nursery a child's voice was singing:

"'I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing on the sea.

And it was full of pretty things--for Baby--and for me.'"