“Go away, I tell you.”
“My God,” he moaned, more smitten, more helpless than she. For, as she turned from him, he understood the height and depth of her tender perjury. She had meant to spare him for as long as it might be, because, afterwards (she must have felt), his own conscience would not be so merciful.
He undressed her, handling her with his clumsy gentleness, and laid her in her bed.
He had called the maid; she went bustling to and fro, loud-footed and wild-eyed. From time to time a cry came from the nursery where the little ones were left alone. Outside, down the street, Arty and Catty ran hand-in-hand to fetch the doctor, their sobbing checked by a mastering sense of their service and importance.
And the man, more helpless than any child, clung to the woman’s hand and waited with her for her hour.
As he waited he looked round the shabby room, and saw for the first time how poor a place it was. Nothing seemed to have been provided for Aggie; nothing ever was provided for her; she was always providing things for other people. His eyes fastened on the Madonna di Gran Duca fading in her frame. He remembered how he had bought it for Aggie seven years ago. Aggie lay under the Madonna, with her eyes closed, making believe that she slept. But he could see by the fluttering of her eyelids that her spirit was awake and restless.
Presently she spoke.
“Arthur,” she said, “I believe I’m going to have a nice quiet night, after all. But when—when the time comes, you’re not to worry, do you hear? Kate and mother will come up and look after me. And you’re to go away to-morrow, just as if nothing had happened.”
She paused.
“The flannels,” she said, “shall be washed and sent after you. You’re not to worry.”