“One doesn’t know always, with such things.”
“Will you see the midwife?” he asked, perceiving that she was worried. But the whole subject, and Daisy’s very existence, though he spoke with solicitude and bent a kindly gaze on her to discover what were the poor creature’s real wishes,—the whole subject to him was utterly remote and meaningless.
“The midwife over to Marlborough by this snow-fall!” she cried disdainfully.
“I’ll ride over and get her if you like,—I’ll bring her out on a pillion.”
“No, no, Lovel,” she said, shaking her head, “neither now nor when the child is born,—I’ll die without midwife, or doctor, more likely.”
“You’re determined to see it in its blackest light,” said Lovel, but he spoke good-humouredly, without losing his patience.
“Well, it isn’t of me or my baby you think, when you sit silent by the hour, is it?” said Daisy, suddenly losing her temper, pulling herself up with the help of the table, and wandering aimlessly around. “’Tisn’t your baby, so why should you think of it? and if I come to die, well, good riddance for you, and you’ll be able to think you did your duty by me. But much you care now, when you go out into the snow like the crazed gipsy you are,—to meet Miss Warrener, Mrs. Calladine, for all I know,—much you care that I sit at home and think myself sick over the danger I’ll run and the pain I’ll suffer, while you maybe won’t come near home till it’s all over one way or the other.”
“When the time gets near I’ll stop closer to home.”
She wanted to cry out, “You dolt, you blockhead, the time is near now,” but dared only repeat “One doesn’t always know ...” and began to whimper.
“I won’t go far afield,” said Lovel, soothing her. He was full of pity for all women in her condition, so that none of her words had power to anger him.