Vanna crept in through the doorway, and knelt down by Jean’s side. The gas was lighted now, turned up just high enough to make visible the various objects in the room, without dazzling the patient’s eyes. Those eyes were raised with strained appeal to the other girl’s face, as if mutely asking help.
Here was another woman, a woman who loved her, a woman who would never have a child of her own. Would she understand? What words of comfort would she offer in her turn?
But Vanna said no words. She laid her face down on Jean’s hand, and the hot tears poured from her eyes. The trembling of her form shook the bed, and Jean trembled in response. A spasm of weakness threatened her, but she would not succumb. She pressed her lips together, and stared fixedly with burning eyes. Was this the “little cry” which was to act as the prelude to the “nice cup of tea”? What comfort had Vanna to offer?
“Well!” she said in that cold, faint voice which sounded so poor an echo of her usual full, musical tones. “Well! what have you to say? I sent for you, you know. My baby is dead. He is dead. I have no baby. It has been all useless, for nothing! Nothing is left—”
“Jean! Jean! My poor little Jean!”
“Is that all you have to say? You ought to tell me to be brave, to be brave and not fret. I am not the first person!... Can you believe it, Vanna; can you? That little chest of drawers is full of his things. I’ve stitched at them for months, and dreamt of him with every stitch. I’ve turned them over a hundred times, waiting, looking forward to to-day. There’s his cot in the corner, and his little bath. It’s all ready—but he is not here. My baby is dead. They took him away, and hid him where I can never see. Think of it, Vanna! all those months, and never even to see his face. To have had a little son, and never to have touched him, given him one kiss—”
“Poor little mother! Poor little hungry mother. Oh, my poor Jean.”
Jean shut her eyes, and pressed her head against the pillow.
“Vanna, Vanna! How shall I bear it? I was so happy, so content; I wanted nothing but Robert, and then this came. I had never been ill before—it was dreadful to be ill, but I looked forward: you know how I looked forward. I thought and thought; it seemed at last as if one thought of nothing else. It grew so real, so near; it filled one’s heart, and then—nothing! nothing but pain and loss. You don’t understand; you can’t guess the horror of it—the baffled, incredible horror. You’ll never know it, Vanna. Thank God for that! When you grieve because you can never marry, remember this day, and what you have escaped. My little son, that I shall never see! What can you say to me, Vanna? What can you say to comfort me?”