“The Indian woman?” he echoed, his voice as faint as her own. Had the thing he dreaded come to pass? “What do you mean?”
Then she told him of her experience with the sick child and the fight with death, in which she had played the chief rôle.
“It was a very serious case, Hugh,” she said. “It made me think of our little Marie. The little fellow was just gone when I got him into the tub. He must be a very, very strong child, stronger than——”
He was immensely relieved for the moment.
“But, my dear Marion, you have knocked yourself up. You are all in, I say. And all for a little Indian brat——”
“Oh, Hugh! He was a perfect darling. I never saw a more lovely, a more perfect little body—and so fair for an Indian.”
“But it nearly killed you.” His recent scare and his anxiety for his wife’s condition made him savage. “You should not have done it. You know well you cannot stand excitement.”
“Dear Hugh,” she said, drawing his head down to her breast, “I love you when you are in a rage like this. But, darling boy,” she paused a few moments, “I am going to tell you something, and promise me you will be very, very brave. Indeed, you must be brave, for I am such a coward. I fear there is something wrong, terribly wrong with me. I have had such a strange, heavy pain here for so long.” She laid her hand upon her stomach. “I am afraid, Hugh, afraid.” Her voice died away in a whisper.
He was about to break forth into indignant, scornful protest against such nonsense, but when he looked into her face his words died at his lips, his heart grew cold and he could only continue gazing at her.
“Don’t, Hugh!” she cried. “You must not look like that, or I cannot bear it.”