"I want daddy! I want daddy!" And strive as she might, no effort of Lucy's could still those cries, which later became feebler, running off into snatches of song and prayers to God.
"Send for her father, ma'am," implored the nurse, her ruddy face white with anxiety. "You ought to, ma'am; it's criminal not to, and I say it, though I am only a servant."
Lucy bade her hold her tongue and not interfere, opposing the same sullen obstinacy to the doctor when he came.
"You're taking a very great responsibility on yourself then, madam," he said, being an outspoken man, though fond of little children, and, seating himself beside the cot, he fixed his keen eyes on the baby's face.
Then, at last, terror conquering pride, Lucy wrote out a telegram and sent it off, only to receive it back an hour later—it was too late, and the office closed.
A message, nevertheless, was next morning delivered to where Hector was sitting in his dingy hotel bedroom, a yellow plush monkey in his arms, and the devil vanquished at last. The message ran:
"Ruby died last night.—LUCY."
Hector stood looking at it, and then suddenly laughed, high-pitched laughter, long and loud, till with a crack it ended, and he fell forward on to the floor, where he lay motionless. And the devil beside him once more raised his head, came nearer, bent down, and began to whisper fast and low in his ear.
CHAPTER XVII
Richard Selbourne stood in front of his South African home, blankly surveying the cloudless heaven.