There was a knock at the door, and the nurse came in.
“Will you please come.”
Dr. Ramsay met him in the passage. “Thank God, it’s over. She’s had a terrible time.”
“Is she all right?”
“I think she’s in no danger now—but I’m sorry to say we couldn’t save the child.”
A pang went through Edward’s heart. “Is it dead?”
“It was still-born. I was afraid it was hopeless. You’d better go to Bertha now—she wants you. She doesn’t know about the child.”
Bertha was lying in an attitude of complete exhaustion: she lay on her back, with arms stretched in utter weakness by her sides. Her face was gray with past anguish, her eyes dull and lifeless, half closed; and her jaw hung almost as hangs the jaw of a corpse. She tried to form a smile as she saw Edward, but in her feebleness the lips scarcely moved.
“Don’t try to speak, dear,” said the nurse, seeing that Bertha was attempting words.
Edward bent down and kissed her, the faintest blush coloured her cheeks, and she began to cry; the tears stealthily glided down her cheeks.