CHAPTER VII
THE HUMAN TOUCH
THREE days later Jan got a note from Peter telling her that Hugo Tancred had left Bombay and was probably leaving India at once from one of the smaller ports.
He had not attempted to communicate in person or by letter with either Jan or his wife.
Early in the morning, just a week from the time Jan had seen Hugo Tancred at the window of that tall house near the cotton green, Fay's third child, a girl, was still-born; and Fay, herself, never recovered consciousness all day. A most competent nurse had been in the house nearly a week, the doctor had done all that human skill could do, but Fay continued to sink rapidly.
About midnight the nurse, who had been standing by the bed with her finger on Fay's pulse, moved suddenly and gently laid down the weak hand she had been holding. She looked warningly across at Jan, who knelt at the other side, her eyes fixed on the pale, beautiful face that looked so wonderfully young and peaceful.
Suddenly Fay opened her eyes and smiled. She looked right past Jan, exclaiming joyfully, "There you are at last, Daddie, and it's broad daylight."
For Jan it was still the middle of the Indian night and very dark indeed.
The servants were all asleep; the little motherless children safely wrapped in happy unconsciousness in their nursery with Ayah.
The last sad offices had been done for Fay, and the nurse, tired out, was also sleeping—on Jan's bed.