Time and again the old woman came hobbling upstairs, bringing food and trying to comfort her.
"Will I send for Doctor Clucas, Bessie?"
"No, no. I shall be better in the morning."
The day passed heavily. She could not lie down. Sometimes she sat on the edge of the bed; sometimes stood and held on to the end of it; and sometimes walked to and fro in the narrow space of her bedroom floor. Having no window in her room her only sight of the world without was through the skylight in the thatch, which showed nothing but the sky. The only sound that reached her was the squealing of a pig that was being killed at a neighbouring farm.
At length darkness fell. Hitherto she had been thinking of her unborn child with a certain tenderness, even a certain pity. But now, in the wild disorder of her senses, she began to hate it. It seemed to be some evil spirit that was coming into the world to destroy everybody. Why shouldn't she kill it? She would! Only she must be alone—quite alone.
Shivering, perspiring, weak, dizzy, she was sitting in the darkness when her mother came to say good-night.
"Here are a few broth. Take them. They'll warm thee."
"No, no."
"Come, let me coax thee, bogh."
Bessie refused again, and the old woman's eyes began to fill.