Then, arriving at Bewlie’s Farm, he called for the labourer in charge of the sick cow.
“Well, how’s she going?”
“She ain’t no better, squire.”
“Bad job! Has Thompson been to see her today?”
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 I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s go and look at her,” said Edward.
He strode over to the barn, followed by the labourer. The poor beast was standing in one corner, looking even more meditative than is usual with cows, hanging her head and humping her back; she looked 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 that endeared him to all and sundry.
“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.”
“Oh, I didn’t know it was so soon as all that.”
“Well, it was about time, Mrs Jones. We’ve been married sixteen months, and chance it.”
“Ah, well, sir, it’s a thing as ’appens to everybody. I ’ope she’s takin’ it well.”
“As well as can be expected, you know. Of course she’s very fanciful. Women are full of ideas; I never saw anything like ’em. Now as I was saying to Dr Ramsay only today, a bitch’ll have half a dozen pups and be running about before you can say Jack Robinson. What I want to know is, why aren’t women the same? All this fuss and bother; it’s enough to turn a man’s hair grey.”
“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 daresay ’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 didn’t believe in the vet half so much as in himself, and his private opinion was that she would recover. He walked up the avenue of Court Leys, looking at the young elms he had planted to fill up the gaps; they were pretty healthy on the whole, and he was pleased with his success. He entered, and as he was hanging up his hat a piercing scream reached his ears.
“Hulloa!” he said, “things are beginning to get a bit lively.”
He went up to the bedroom 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. It’s only a bit slow.”
“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.”
“Oh, the darling!” she groaned. “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 upstairs 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 steadily. At last, with the happy sigh of a man conscious of virtue and a distended stomach, he lit his pipe and again settling himself in the armchair in a little while began to nod. The evening 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 was looking worried when Edward went up 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 the 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 groaned, making an effort. “You musn’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 yourse
lf 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. You’ll be all right in a couple of hours.”
“D’you think it will last a couple of hours longer? I can’t stand it. Oh, doctor, don’t let me suffer any more.”
Edward 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 takes plenty of exercise; tonight 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 hump-backs, 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, and swollen to double their normal size.
“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 Spencer. Bertha is very bad.”
“All right, I’ll bring him back with me.”
Edward rapidly dressed.
“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 Spencer 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 a man was who could be relied upon to do anything, who never lost his head or got excited. His admiration for Edward was growing by leaps and bounds.
17
Edward Craddock was a strong man and unimaginative. Driving through the night to Tercanbury he did not give way to distressing thoughts, but easily kept his anxiety within proper bounds, and gave his whole attention to conducting the horse. He kept his eyes on the road in front of him. The horse stepped out with swift, regular stride, rapidly passing the milestones. Edward rang Dr Spencer up and gave him the note he carried. The doctor presently came down, an undersized man with a squeaky voice and a gesticulative manner. He looked upon Edward with suspicion.
“I suppose you’re the husband?” he said, as they clattered down the street. “Would you like me to drive? I daresay you’re rather upset.”
“No, and don’t want to be,” answered Edward with a laugh. He looked down a little upon people who lived in towns, and never trusted a man who was less than six feet high and burly in proportion.
“I’m rather nervous of anxious husbands who drive me at breakneck pace in the middle of the night,” said the doctor. “The ditches have an almost irresistible attraction for them.”
“Well, I’m not nervous, doctor, so it doesn’t matter twopence if you are.”
When they reached the open country, Edward set the horse going at its fastest; he was amused at the doctor’s desire to drive. Absurd little man!
“Are you holding on tight?” he asked, with good-natured scorn.
“I can see you can drive,” said the doctor.
“It is not the first time I’ve had reins in my hands,” replied Edward modestly. “Here we are.”
He showed the specialist to the bedroom and asked whether Dr Ramsay required him further.
“No, I don’t want you just now; but you’d better stay up to be ready, if anything happens. I’m afraid Bertha is very bad indeed. You must be prepared for everything.”
Edward retired to the next room and sat down. He was genuinely disturbed, but even now he could not realize that Bertha was dying; his mind was sluggish and he was unable to imagine the future. A more emotional man would have been white with fear, his heart beating painfully, and his nerves quivering with a hundred anticipated terrors. He would have been quite useless, while Edward was fit for any emergency; he could have been trusted to drive another ten miles in search of some appliance, and with perfect steadiness to help in any necessary operation.
“You know,” he said to Dr Ramsay, “I don’t want to get in your way; but if I should be any use in the room you can trust me not to get flurried.”
“I don’t think there’s anything you can do; the nurse is very trustworthy and capable.”
“Women,” said Edward, “get so excited; they always make fools of themselves if they possibly can.”
But the night air had made Craddock sleepy, and after half an hour in the chair, trying to read a book, he dozed off. Presently, however, he awoke, and the first light of day filled the room with a grey coldness. He looked at his watch.
“By Jove, it’s a long job,” he said.
There was a knock at the door, and the nurse came in.
“Will you please come?”
Dr Ramsay met him in the passage.
“Thank God, it’s over. She’s had a terrible time.”
“Is she all right?”
“I think she’s in no danger now, but I’m sorry to say we couldn’t save the child.”
A pang went through Edward’s heart. “Is it dead?”
“It was still-born. I was afraid it was hopeless. You’d better go to Bertha now, she wants you. She doesn’t know about the child.”
Bertha was lying in an attitude of extreme exhaustion: she lay on her back, with arms stretched in utter weakness by her sides. Her face was grey with past anguish, her eyes now were dull and lifeless, half closed, and her jaw hung almost as hangs the jaw of a dead man. She tried to form a smile as she saw Edward, but in her feebleness the lips scarcely moved.
“Don’t try to speak, dear,” said the nurse, seeing that Bertha was attempting words.
Edward bent down and kissed her; the faintest blush coloured her cheeks, and then she began to cry; the tears stealthily glided down her cheeks.
“Come nearer to me, Eddie,” she whispered.
He knelt down beside her, suddenly touched. He took her hand, and the contact had a vivifying effect; she drew a long breath and her lips formed a weary, weary smile.
“Thank God, it’s over,” she groaned. “Oh, Eddie darling, you can’t think what I’ve gone through. It hurt so awfully.”
“Well, it’s all over now,” said Edward.
“And you’ve been worrying too, Eddie. It encouraged me to think that you shared my trouble. You must go to sleep now. It was good of you to drive to Tercanbury for me.”
“You musn’t talk,” said Dr Ramsay, coming back into the room after seeing the specialist sent off.
“I’m better now,” said Bertha, “since I’ve seen Eddie.”
“Well, you must go to sleep.”
“You’ve not told me yet if it’s a boy or a girl; tell me, Eddie, you know.”
Edward looked uneasily at the doctor.
“It’s a boy,” said Dr Ramsay.
“I knew it would be,” she murmured. An expression of ecstatic pleasure came into her face, chasing away the greyness of death. “I’m so glad. Have you seen it, Eddie?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s our child, isn’t it? It’s worth going through the pain to have a baby. I’m so happy.”
“You must go to sleep now.”
“I’m not a bit sleepy, and I want to see my son.”
“No, you can’t see him now,” said Dr Ramsay, “he’s asleep, and you mustn’t disturb him.”
“Oh, I should like to see him—just for one minute. You needn’t wake him.”
“You shall see him after you’ve been asleep,” said the doctor soothingly. “It’ll excite you too much.”
“Well, you go and see him, Eddie, and kiss him; and then I’ll go to sleep.”
She seemed so anxious that at least its father should see his child that the nurse led Edward into the next room. On a chest of drawers was lying something covered with a towel. This the nurse lifted, and Edward saw his child; it was naked and very small, hardly human, repulsive, yet very pitiful. The eyes were closed, the eyes that had never opened. Edward looked at it for a minute.
“I promised I’d kiss it,” he whispered.
He bent down and touched with his lips the cold forehead; the nurse drew the towel over the body and they went back to Bertha.
“Is he sleeping?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you kiss him?”
“Yes.”
Bertha smiled: “Fancy your kissing my baby before me.”
But the soporific that Dr Ramsay had administered was taking its effect, and almost immediately Bertha fell into a happy sleep.
“Let’s take a turn in the garden,” said Dr Ramsay, “I think I ought to be here when she wakes.”
* * *
The air was fresh, scented with the spring flowers and the odour of the earth. Both men inspired it with relief after the close atmosphere of the sick-room. Dr Ramsay put his arm in Edward’s.
Mrs Craddock Page 18