The White Desert Part 30
"Agnes!"
The eyelids moved slightly; it was the only evidence of life, save the labored, irregular breathing. Then the hand moved, clutchingly.
Slowly, tremblingly, Houston turned back an edge of the blankets,--and stood aghast.
On her breast was a baby--dead!
CHAPTER XX
There was no time for conjectures. The woman meant a human life,--in deadly need of resuscitation, and Barry leaped to his task.
Warmth was the first consideration, and he hurried to the sheet-iron stove, with its pile of wood stacked behind, noticing, as he built the fire, cans and packages of provisions upon the shelf over the small wooden table, evidence that some one other than the woman herself had looked after the details of stocking the cabin with food and of providing against emergencies. At least a portion of the wood as he shoved it into the stove crackled and spit with the wetness of snow; the box had been replenished, evidently within the last few days.
Soon water was boiling. Hot cloths went to the woman's head; quietly, reverently, Barry had taken the still, small child from the tightly clenched arm and covered it, on the little table. And with the touch of the small, lifeless form, the resentment which had smoldered in Houston's heart for months seemed to disappear. Instinctively he knew what a baby means to a mother,--and she must be its mother. He understood that the agony of loss which was hers was far greater even than the agony which her faithlessness had meant for him. Gently, almost tenderly, he went again to the bed, to chafe the cold, thin wrists, to watch anxiously the eyes, then at last to bend forward. The woman was looking at him, staring with fright in her gaze, almost terror.
"Barry--" the word was more of a mumble. "Barry--" then the eyes turned, searching for the form that no longer was beside her.
"My--my--" Then, with a spasm of realization, she was silent. Houston strove dully for words.
"I'm sorry--Agnes. Don't be afraid of me. I'll get help for you."
"Don't." The voice was a monotone, minus expression, almost minus life. The face had become blank, so much parchment drawn over bone.
"I've been sick--my baby--where's my baby?"
"Don't you know?"
"Yes," came at last. There was the dullness that comes when grief has reached the breaking point. "Dead. It died--yesterday morning."
Houston could say nothing in answer. The simple statement was too tragic, too full of meaning, too fraught with the agony of that long day and night of suffering, for any reply in words that would not jar, or cause even a greater pang. Quietly he turned to the stove, red-hot now, and with snow water began the making of gruel from the supplies on the shelf. Once he turned, suddenly aware that the eyes of the woman were centered in his direction. But they were not upon him; their gaze was for one thing, one alone,--that tiny, covered form on the table.
An hour pa.s.sed silently, except for the trivialities of speech accompanying the proffered food. Then, at last, forcing himself to the subject, Houston asked a question:
"Where is he?"
"Who?" Sudden fright had come into the woman's eyes. A name formed on Houston's lips, only to be forced back into the more general query:
"Your husband."
She smiled faintly.
"You've got me, haven't you, Barry?" A half-hysterical tone came now.
"You know a lot--and you want the rest, so you can pay me back, don't you? Oh," and the thin fingers plucked at the bedclothes, "I expected it! I expected it! I knew sooner or later--"
"If you're talking about me, Agnes--and what I've been led to believe, we'll save that for a future time. I think I'm enough of a man not to hara.s.s a person in time of grief."
"Coals of fire, eh?" A tinge of her old expression had come back, with returning strength.
"Nothing of the kind. I simply wanted to help you--because you're a woman in trouble. You're sick. Your baby's--gone. If I can get your husband for you, I--"
But she shook her head, suddenly weak and broken, suddenly only what Barry was trying to make of her in his mind, a grieving woman, in need.
"We're--not married. You'll know it sooner or later. I--I don't know where he is. He was here three days ago and was coming back that night. But he didn't. Maybe he's gone--he'd threatened it."
"He? You mean--"
She pressed her lips tight.
"I'm not going to tell--yet. You've got to do something for me first.
I'm in trouble--" she was speaking rapidly now, the words flooding over her lips between gasps, her eyes set, her hands knitting. "My baby's dead. You know that, don't you?" she asked suddenly, in apparent forgetfulness of any previous conversation. "My baby's dead. It died yesterday morning--all day long I held it in my arms and cried. Then I slept, didn't I?"
"You were unconscious."
"Maybe I'm going to die." There was childishness in the voice. "Like my baby. I baptized her before she went. Maybe I'm going to die too."
"I hope not, Agnes."
"You'd like to see me die!" The frail bonds of an illness-ridden brain were straining at their leash. "I can see it in your eyes. You'd like to see me die!"
"Why?" he could think of nothing else.
"Because--" and then she stopped. "No--you're trying to get me to tell--but I won't; I'll tell when you come back--I'll tell what I said and did when you bring me the note from the priest. You want me to tell, don't you? Don't you? That's what you came here for. You found out I was here. I--did he tell?" she asked sharply.
Barry shook his head.
"I don't know who you mean, Agnes."
"No? I think you're--"
"I was on my way over the range. I got lost in the storm and stumbled in here." He looked out. "It's let up some now. Maybe I could find my way back to town--you must have a doctor."
"I don't want a doctor! I want to go--with my baby. And I don't want him to know--understand that--" with a struggle she raised to one elbow, eyes suddenly blazing with the flashes of her disordered brain, features strained and excited. "I don't want him to know! He ran away and left me for three days. The fire went out--my baby--" hysterical laughter broke from her dry lips--"My baby died, and still he didn't come. He--"
"Agnes!" Houston grasped her hands. "Try to control yourself! Maybe he couldn't get back. The storm--"
"Yes, the storm! It's always the storm! We would have been married--but there was the storm. He couldn't marry me months ago--when I found out--and when I came back out here! He couldn't marry me then. 'Wait'; that's what he always said--'wait--' and I waited. Now--" then the voice trailed off--"it's been three days. He promised to be back. But--"
Houston sought to end the repet.i.tion.
"Perhaps I could find him and bring him here."
But it was useless. The woman drifted back to her rambling statements.
Laughter and tears followed one another in quick succession; the breaking of restraint had come at last. At last she turned, and staring with glazed eyes into those of Houston, burst forth.
"You hate me, don't you?"
"I--"
"Don't deny it!" Querulous imperiousness was in the voice. "You hate me--you'll go back to Boston and tell my mother about this. I know--you've got the upper hand now. You'll tell her why I came out here--you'll tell her about the baby, won't you? Yes, you'll--"