the nurse arrived, bringing new apprehension. she was an old woman who, for twenty years, had helped the neighbouring gentry into the world; and she had a copious store of ghastly anecdote. in her mouth the terrors of birth were innumerable, and she told her stories with a cumulative art that was appalling. of course, in her mind, she acted for the best; bertha was nervous, and the nurse could imagine no better way of reassuring her than to give detailed accounts of patients who for days had been at death’s door, given up by all the doctors, and yet had finally recovered.
bertha’s quick invention magnified the coming anguish till, for thinking of it, she could hardly sleep. the impossibility even to conceive it rendered it more formidable; she saw before her a long, long agony, and then death. she could not bear edward to be out of her sight.
“why, of course you’ll get over it,” he said. “i promise you it’s nothing to make a fuss about.”
he had bred animals for years and was quite used to the process which supplied him with veal, mutton, and beef, for the local butchers. it was a ridiculous fuss that human beings made over a natural and ordinary phenomenon.
“oh, i’m so afraid of the pain. i feel certain that i shan’t get over it—it’s awful. i wish i hadn’t got to go through it.”
“good heavens,” cried the doctor, “one would think no one had ever had a baby before you.”
“oh, don’t laugh at me. can’t you see how frightened i am! i have a presentiment that i shall die.”
“i never knew a woman yet,” said dr. ramsay, “who hadn’t a presentiment that she would die, even if she had nothing worse than a finger-ache the matter with her.”
“oh, you can laugh,” said bertha. “i’ve got to go through it.”
another day passed, and the nurse said the doctor must be immediately sent for. bertha had made edward promise to remain with her all the time.
“i think i shall have courage if i can hold your hand,” she said.
“nonsense,” said dr. ramsay, when edward told him this, “i’m not going to have a man meddling about.”
“i thought not,” said edward, “but i just promised, to keep her quiet.”
“if you’ll keep yourself quiet,” answered the doctor, “that’s all i shall expect.”
“oh, you needn’t fear about me. i know all about these things—why, my dear doctor, i’ve brought a good sight more living things into the world than you have, i bet.”
edward, calm, self-possessed, unimaginative, was the ideal person for an emergency.
“there’s no good my knocking about the house all the afternoon,” he said. “i should only mope, and if i’m wanted i can always be sent for.”
he left word that he was going to bewlie’s farm to see a sick cow, about which he was very anxious.
“she’s the best milker i’ve ever had. i don’t know what i should do if anything went wrong with her. she gives her so-many pints a day, as regular as possible. she’s brought in over and over again the money i gave for her.”
he walked along with the free and easy step which bertha so much admired, glancing now and then at the fields which bordered the highway. he stopped to examine the beans of a rival farmer.
“that soil’s no good,” he said, shaking his head. “it don’t pay to grow beans on a patch like that.”
when he arrived at bewlie’s farm, edward called for the labourer in charge of the invalid.
“well, how’s she going?”
“she ain’t no better, squire.”
“bad job.... has thompson been to see her to-day?” thompson was the vet.
“‘e can’t make nothin’ of it—’e thinks it’s a habscess she’s got, but i don’t put much faith in mister thompson: ’is father was a labourer same as me, only ’e didn’t ’ave to do with farming, bein’ a bricklayer; and wot ’is son can know about cattle is beyond me altogether.”
“well, let’s go and look at her,” said edward.
he strode over to the barn, followed by the labourer. the beast was standing in one corner, even more meditative than is usual with cows, hanging her head and humping her back. she seemed profoundly pessimistic.
“i should have thought thompson could do something,” said edward.
“‘e says the butcher’s the only thing for ’er,” said the other, with great contempt.
edward snorted indignantly. “butcher indeed! i’d like to butcher him if i got the chance.”
he went into the farmhouse, which for years had been his home; but he was a practical, sensible fellow and it brought him no memories, no particular emotion.
“well, mrs. jones,” he said to the tenant’s wife. “how’s yourself?”
“middlin’, sir. and ’ow are you and mrs. craddock?”
“i’m all right—the missus is having a baby, you know.”
he spoke in the jovial, careless way which necessarily endeared him to the whole world.
“bless my soul, is she indeed, sir—and i knew you when you was a boy! when d’you expect it?”
“i expect it every minute. why, for all i know, i may be a happy father when i get back to tea.”
“you take it pretty cool, governor,” said farmer jones, who had known edward in the days of his poverty.
“me?” cried edward, laughing. “i know all about this sort of thing, you see. why, look at all the calves i’ve had—and mind you, i’ve not had an accident with a cow above twice, all the time i’ve gone in for breeding.... but i’d better be going to see how the missus is getting on. good afternoon to you, mrs. jones.”
“now what i like about the squire,” said mrs. jones, “is that there’s no ‘aughtiness in ’im. ’e ain’t too proud to take a cup of tea with you, although ’e is the squire now.”
“‘e’s the best squire we’ve ’ad for thirty years,” said farmer jones, “and, as you say, my dear, there’s not a drop of ’aughtiness in ‘im—which is more than you can say for his missus.”
“oh well, she’s young-like,” replied his wife. “they do say as ’ow ’e’s the master, and i dare say ’e’ll teach ’er better.”
“trust ’im for makin’ ’is wife buckle under; ’e’s not a man to stand nonsense from anybody.”
edward swung along the road, whirling his stick round, whistling, and talking to the dogs that accompanied him. he was of a hopeful disposition, and did not think it would be necessary to slaughter his best cow. he did not believe in the vet. half so much as in himself, and his firm opinion was that she would recover. he walked up the avenue of court leys, looking at the young elms he had planted to fill the gaps; they were pretty healthy on the whole, and he was pleased with his work.
he went to bertha’s room and knocked at the door. dr. ramsay opened it, but with his burly frame barred the passage.
“oh, don’t be afraid,” said edward, “i don’t want to come in. i know when i’m best out of the way.... how is she getting on?”
“well, i’m afraid it won’t be such an easy job as i thought,” whispered the doctor; “but there’s no reason to get alarmed.”
“i shall be downstairs if you want me for anything.”
“she was asking for you a good deal just now, but nurse told her it would upset you if you were there; so then she said, ‘don’t let him come; i’ll bear it alone.’”
“oh, that’s all right. in a time like this the husband is much better out of the way, i think.”
dr. ramsay shut the door upon him.
“sensible chap that,” he said. “i like him better and better. why, most men would be fussing about and getting hysterical, and lord knows what.”
“was that eddie?” asked bertha, her voice trembling with recent agony.
“yes; he came to see how you were.”
“he isn’t very much upset, is he? don’t tell him i’m very bad—it’ll make him wretched. i’ll bear it alone.”
edward, downstairs, told himself it was no use getting into a state, which was quite true, and taking the most comfortable chair in the room, settled down to read his paper. before dinner he went to make more inquiries. dr. ramsay came out saying he had given bertha opium, and for a while she was quiet.
“it’s lucky you did it just at dinner time,” said edward, with a laugh. “we’ll be able to have a snack together.”
they sat down and began to eat. they rivalled one another in their appetites; and the doctor, liking edward more and more, said it did him good to see a man who could eat well. but before they had reached the pudding, a message came from the nurse to say that bertha was awake, and dr. ramsay regretfully left the table. edward went on eating steadfastly. at last, with the happy sigh of the man conscious of virtue and a satisfied stomach, he lit his pipe and again settling himself in the armchair, shortly began to doze. the evening, however, was long, and he felt bored.
“it ought to be all over by now,” he said. “i wonder if i need stay up?”
dr. ramsay seemed a little worried when edward went to him a third time.
“i’m afraid it’s a difficult case,” he said. “it’s most unfortunate. she’s been suffering a good deal, poor thing.”
“well, is there anything i can do?” asked edward.
“no, except to keep calm and not make a fuss.”
“oh, i shan’t do that; you needn’t fear. i will say that for myself, i have got nerve.”
“you’re splendid,” said dr. ramsay. “i tell you i like to see a man keep his head so well through a job like this.”
“well, what i came to ask you was—is there any good in my sitting up? of course i’ll do it if anything can be done; but if not i may as well go to bed.”
“yes, i think you’d much better; i’ll call you if you’re wanted. i think you might come in and say a word or two to bertha; it will encourage her.”
edward entered. bertha was lying with staring, terrified eyes—eyes that seemed to have lately seen entirely new things, they shone glassily. her face was whiter than ever, the blood had fled from her lips, and her cheeks were sunken: she looked as if she were dying. she greeted edward with the faintest smile.
“how are you, little woman?” he asked.
his presence seemed to call her back to life, and a faint colour lit up her cheeks.
“i’m all right,” she said, making an effort. “you mustn’t worry yourself, dear.”
“been having a bad time?”
“no,” she said, bravely. “i’ve not really suffered much—there’s nothing for you to upset yourself about.”
he went out, and she called dr. ramsay. “you haven’t told him what i’ve gone through, have you? i don’t want him to know.”
“no, that’s all right. i’ve told him to go to bed.”
“oh, i’m glad. he can’t bear not to get his proper night’s rest.... how long d’you think it will last—already i feel as if i’d been tortured for ever, and it seems endless.”
“oh, it’ll soon be over now, i hope.”
“i’m sure i’m going to die,” she whispered; “i feel that life is being gradually drawn out of me—i shouldn’t mind if it weren’t for eddie. he’ll be so cut up.”
“what nonsense!” said the nurse, “you all say you’re going to die.”
edward—dear, manly, calm, and pure-minded fellow as he was—went to bed quietly and soon was fast asleep. but his slumbers were somewhat troubled: generally he enjoyed the heavy dreamless sleep of the man who has no nerves and plenty of exercise. to-night, however, he dreamt. he dreamt not only that one cow was sick, but that all his cattle had fallen ill—the cows stood about with gloomy eyes and humpbacks, surly and dangerous, evidently with their livers totally deranged; the oxen were “blown,” and lay on their backs with legs kicking feebly in the air.
“you must send them all to the butcher’s,” said the vet.; “there’s nothing to be done with them.”
“good lord deliver us,” said edward; “i shan’t get four bob a stone for them.”
but his dream was disturbed by a knock at the door, and edward awoke to find dr. ramsay shaking him.
“wake up, man—get up and dress quickly.”
“what’s the matter?” cried edward, jumping out of bed and seizing his clothes. “what’s the time?”
“it’s half-past four.... i want you to go into tercanbury for dr. spocref; bertha is very bad.”
“all right, i’ll bring him back with me.” edward rapidly dressed himself.
“i’ll go round and wake up the man to put the horse in.”
“no, i’ll do that myself; it’ll take me half the time.” he methodically laced his boots.
“bertha is in no immediate danger. but i must have a consultation. i still hope we shall bring her through it.”
“by jove,” said edward, “i didn’t know it was so bad as that.”
“you need not get alarmed yet—the great thing is for you to keep calm and bring spocref along as quickly as possible. it’s not hopeless yet.”
edward, with all his wits about him, was soon ready and with equal rapidity set to harnessing the horse; he carefully lit the lamps, as the proverb, more haste, less speed, passed through his mind. in two minutes he was on the main road, and whipped up the horse. he went with a quick, steady trot through the silent night.
dr. ramsay, returning to the sick-room, thought what a splendid object was a man who could be relied upon to do anything, who never lost his head nor got excited. his admiration for edward was growing by leaps and bounds.
