Nevertheless, he began to take the affair more tragically. Suppose her parents would cast her off! Suppose that Milt would avenge her dishonour! Suppose that she died in accouchement! Suppose—she stayed his mouth and called him a croaking raven. Suppose anything, for that matter. Milt didn't count. He wouldn't be home at the time—she computed on her fingers—and as to her parents, she hadn't made up her mind on any plan of action. She knew that she couldn't or wouldn't, come out flatly now with the truth. That way would be disaster. How could she go away and write those dear little unworldly people? That would be cowardice. No, whatever course she would adopt, she must remain near her father and mother. She must shock them, also console them. Refusal of their forgiveness she did not anticipate. Only—only, one obstacle loomed ahead—their treatment of her Jewel, of the father of her beloved unborn child. Supposing she gave birth to twins! Grane and Shamus! What a paradise life would be! At once she saw herself playing with her babies in her Ebony Tower, converted into a nursery, a super-nursery for their super-babies, she playfully told him. He couldn't view the case so disinterestedly.
"Yes, but darling girl, the chief bother to me is what will your parents say—or do—to me? I'll only be a commonplace seducer in their eyes. Old-fashioned people can't shed their prejudices as snakes shed their skins. I fear a big row. Naturally, we must get married—at once; Mona, immediately!" He said this but his words lacked steam and sincerity to the acute ear of the girl. She felt assured that he saw no other girl save her, yet she knew young men, knew Ulick, knew that his hell of good intentions was often paved with fickle promises. Let matters take their natural course without undue meddling. After baby was born it would be time enough to discuss matrimony. That she was challenging by her unusual conduct worldly judgments she knew. Never cross a bridge till you reach one. Oh! her baby, her baby boy, her Shamus—maybe her Grane, her little white Wagnerian pony. She laughed.
He resumed his futile rambling round the room. An idea, a disagreeable idea, was crystallizing. Why not? Other women have undergone the peril. After several shaky beginnings, he finally compromised with his conscience by whispering in her ear. She blushed. Then repulsing him she exclaimed, No! And he had never expected such decision from a girl of her easy-drifting nature. "And you born a Roman Catholic!" she sorrowfully concluded. Ruefully he acquiesced. There was no way out. Abortion is the resort of assassins. What else? Matrimony would solve the question. Then Mona could possess her soul in peace. She could have her baby, to be sure, a few months ahead of time, but she could look her world in the eye. There was further palaver, nothing decided upon. She embraced Jewel and went home in a taxi, because, as she told herself, she must not take any chances. Already she felt life within her; her breakfasts she got rid of in a summary fashion, as she was too nauseated to swallow them. Tea she could manage. Eggs—ugh! The symptoms were classic, her case normal. But never would she consent to destroy sentient life. No such via dolorosa was in store for her.
A few weeks later just as Ulick was leaving to "cover" the first night of "The Lady With the Lace Legs" at the Empire, he was intercepted by Madame Felicé, whose kindly face wore a worried expression: "Monsieur Invern, you are demanded on the telephone. Il y en a quelque chose de grave pour vous. I hope your young lady, cette charmante fille, Mlle. Mona, is not so ill as they say. Mais dépêchez-vous, cher Monsieur! On vous attend." Ulick took up the receiver. A woman's voice asked in quavering accents: "Is this Mr. Invern?" "Yes." "This is Mrs. Milton, Mona's mother. You know where we live, yes? Please come up at once. Mona is ill—very ill—she may not last through the night. You know what's the matter. Oh! Do come! She asks for you whenever the pains allow her. Don't fear coming, Mr. Invern. Her father understands. Only—hurry—for God's sake hurry!" At his side the Madame had clearly heard every word. But what mattered that? She was hugely tolerant. She wasn't a gossip. And now she was most sympathetic. While he rang up his newspaper she sent out for a taxi. He soon finished with his night editor. He felt ill. Couldn't the city department get someone to cover the operetta? Besides, he was only obliging his confrère, the music-critic who had a poker party on at his house. Music was not in Ulick's bailiwick. The affair was soon settled. Fifteen minutes later he was ringing at the Milton's.
II
A maid opened the door. Her face was drawn, and she enveloped the half-frantic young man in a hostile gaze. He felt like a guilty scoundrel. Evidently he was in for a hard night, but he didn't trouble about himself. His unique sorrow was Mona. He walked up and down the semi-darkened drawing-room. A premature birth. Without doubt. It could be nothing else, unless—unless an accident had supervened. Perhaps his darling had been run down by some selfish brute of a motorist—Mona was so imprudent—he was become well-nigh frantic when Mrs. Milton entered. He thought her positively angelic when she came to him and took his hand in hers. "Don't worry too much, Mr. Invern. Mona is better since she knows you are here. No, no! I shan't listen to any accusations.... We understand, and to understand is to forgive. Mr. Milton thinks as I do. How did it happen! Mona was nearly killed by an auto this morning. She crossed the avenue dreaming of her future happiness. Yes, the sweet child has told us all. Don't be shocked. Girls have different moral codes today and parents must try to sympathize with them; if they do not, then they can't be of use to their daughters—and that would be terrible. The wheels missed her but she received a glancing blow on the shoulder and arm. She fell, and heavily, but she didn't faint. The gentleman in the car drove her home. He was very much concerned, although I am sure he was not to blame. The doctor said the blow was superficial. He bandaged her shoulder, and put her arm in a sling"—Ulick buried his face in his hands and groaned:
"Poor, suffering Mona!" Her mother touched his arm reassuringly. "All went well till late this afternoon. Mona began to suffer atrociously. Pains in her abdomen. They were so horrible that I summoned the doctor again. She didn't mind him, she was suffering so: He hinted at the shock and asked to examine her, fearing, no doubt, peritonitis. And that's precisely what it is ... as soon as he saw her poor swollen figure.... Of course, he knew at once ... and that brave girl never flinched. Her first question was the safety of the ... of her child ... when he told her the truth. Tears rolled down her cheek ... that, and no thought of disgrace troubled her ... she bites the pillow-case when the pains return, she won't scream ... such a brave girl.... She holds as tight as her strength allows that big doll of hers.... Oh, Mr. Invern, don't cry. Be brave. You must see her ... she doesn't speak of anyone but you—she says you are her dear husband—as you are in the sight of God—No, Mr. Milton takes the thing philosophically. He entertains no harsh thoughts concerning you. Young people! Ah! Mr. Invern, this is a sad meeting. My son Milt has spoken so often of you, and so beautifully—why didn't Mona tell us of her love for you? We should have been happy to receive you—but now—the future is a blank. She fell asleep when she learned that you were here. Her father is with her, and the doctor—he would give us no definite promise—septicaemia he fears, and that awful peritonitis ... wait, I'll go see if you may come." Like a genteel apparition she stole away, leaving Ulick in a doleful mood. Where his philosophy now? Where his calm attitude of a spectator on the sidewalk of life? Vanished all his shallow theories. Confronted by invincible facts his sensual day-dreams shrivelled into nothingness. Only Mona—only that she be spared, he prayed, and prayed for the first time since his boyhood. "O Jesus, sauve-moi! Sans toi je périra!" A scrap of a supplication he had heard his mother utter many times in her tribulations: Mrs. Milton was beckoning from the door. He followed her, treading as lightly as he could. He was chilled with fear.
She lay under a counterpane that was as white as her face. The room was empty, the father and medical man elsewhere. She slept. A large French doll was clasped in her arms. Her heavy hair had been braided and rolled off her forehead. Her features were discomposed, her eyelids discoloured. Shocked by the change he saw in her, Ulick knelt at the bedside. Mrs. Milton remained without. Mona's breathing was irregular. She looked ten years older. He hated the grotesque doll with the staring eyes of porcelain. It took up so much space in her bed—in her affection. Her eyes opened.
"Little boy," she tenderly murmured, and stroked his head. He choked his sobs. "Don't worry, poor little boy, we still have our dream-babies." Her face contracted with sudden pain. It was ash-gray, death-like, this sweet face. She held his hand so tightly that it hurt him. She bit the sheet. A low moaning sound issued from her lips, foam-speckled. No longer able to endure the sight of her suffering he called her mother. Mona made a sign, and he got away, he hardly knew how, hurtling into the two men as he went through the corridor. The doctor paid no attention. Mr. Milton, an old man with a head too large for his body, and with white hair like a grizzled mop, looked keenly at him, and then as if he were solving some intricate chess-problem he paused, ruminated, and finally made up his mind. He conducted the young man who had wrought such havoc in his household to the library, gently pushed him into a chair, offered him whisky and cigars. Ulick shook a negative. He was too much moved to utter a word. If he had opened his mouth it would have been to sob. Apologies, explanations, offers of reparation—all such silly phraseology were forgotten in the rush of repentance. It was the first time that he had come to grips with naked truth, and it hurt like a knife in his entrails. He could only sit with eyes half closed and wait—wait. Facing him was her father, who smoked a pipe. Neither one spoke. The hours slowly went by, every tick of the clock torture-breeding. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow!