"What is it, Blanche?—are you sick?"
She looked at him drowsily, and at last slowly said: "No, Jim—I am happy. See my baby there, in the sunshine! Isn't she lovely?"
The man grew rigid with fear, and the hair of his head moved. He thought her delirious—dying, perhaps, of cold. He gathered her hands in his and fell upon his knees.
"What is it, dear? What do you mean?"
"Nothing, nothing," she murmured.
"You're sure you're not worse? Can't I help you?"
She did not reply, and he knelt there holding her hands until she sank into unmistakably quiet sleep.
He feared the unspeakable. He imagined her taken in premature childbirth, brought on by exposure and excitement, and, for the first time, he took upon himself the burden of his guilt. The thought of danger to her had not hitherto troubled him. For the poor, weak fool of a husband he cared nothing; but this woman was his, and the child to come was his. Birth—of which many men make a jest—suddenly took on majesty and terror, and the little life seemed about to enter a world of storm which filled him with a sense of duty new to him.
He bent down and laid his cheek against his woman's hands, and his throat choked with a passionate resolution. He put his merry, careless young manhood behind him at that moment and assumed the responsibilities of a husband.
"May God strike me dead if I don't make you happy!" he whispered.