All night Anne lay awake beside her, driven to the edge of the bed, that she might give breathing s.p.a.ce to the little body that pushed, closer and closer, to the warm place she made.

Towards dawn Peggy sighed three times, and stretched her limbs, as if awakening out of her sleep.

Then Anne turned, and laid her hands on the dead body of her child.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

The yacht had lain all night in Fawlness creek. Majendie had slept on board. He had sent Steve up to the farm with a message for Maggie. He had told her not to expect him that night. He would call and see her very early in the morning. That would prepare her for the end. In the morning he would call and say good-bye to her.

He had taken that resolution on the night when Gardner had told him about Peggy.

He did not sleep. He heard all the sounds of the land, of the river, of the night, and of the dawn. He heard the lapping of the creek water against the yacht's side; the wash of the steamers pa.s.sing on the river; the stir of wild fowl at daybreak; the swish of wind and water among the reeds and gra.s.ses of the creek.

All night he thought of Peggy, who would not live, who was the child of her father's pa.s.sion and her mother's grief.

At dawn he got up. It was a perfect day, with the promise of warmth in it. Over land and water the white mist was lifting and drifting, eastwards towards the risen sun. Inland, over the five fields, the drops of fallen mist glittered on the gra.s.s. The Farm, guarded by its three elms, showed clear, and red, and still, as if painted under an unchanging light. A few leaves, loosened by the damp, were falling with a shivering sound against the house wall, and lay where they fell, yellow on the red-brick path.

Maggie was not at the garden gate. She sat crouched inside, by the fender, kindling a fire. Tea had been made and was standing on the table.

She was waiting.

She rose, with a faint cry, as Majendie entered. She put her arms on his shoulders in her old way. He loosened her hands gently and held her by them, keeping her from him at arm's length. Her hands were cold, her eyes had foreknowledge of the end; but, moved by his touch, her mouth curled unaware and shaped itself for kissing.

He did not kiss her. And she knew.

Upstairs in the bedroom overhead, Steve and his mother moved heavily.

There was a sound of drawers opening and shutting, then a grating sound.

Something was being dragged from under the bed. Maggie knew that they were packing Majendie's portmanteau with the things he had left behind him.

They stood together by the hearth, where the fire kindled feebly. He thrust out his foot, and struck the woodpile; it fell and put out the flame that was struggling to be born.

"I'm sorry, Maggie," he said.

Maggie stooped and built up the pile again and kindled it. She knelt there, patient and humble, waiting for the fire to burn.

He did not know whether he was going to have trouble with her. He was afraid of her tenderness.

"Why didn't you come last night?" she said.

"I couldn't."

She looked at him with eyes that said, "That is not true."

"You couldn't?"

"I couldn't."

"You came last week."

"Last week--yes. But since then things have happened, do you see?"

"Things have happened," she repeated, under her breath.

"Yes. My little girl is very ill."

"Peggy?" she cried, and covered her face with her hands. Then with her hands she made a gesture that swept calamity aside. Maggie would only believe what she wanted.

"She will get better," she said.

"Perhaps. But I must be with my wife."

"You weren't with her last night," said Maggie. "You could have come then."

"No, Maggie, I couldn't."

"D'you mean--because of the little girl?"

"Yes."

"I see," she said softly. She had understood.

"She will get better," she said, "and then you can come again."

"No. I've told you. I must be with my wife."

"I thought--" said Maggie.

"Never mind what you thought," he said with a quick, fierce impatience.

"Are you fond of her?" she asked suddenly.

"You know I am," he said; and his voice was kind again. "You've known it all the time. I told you that in the beginning."

"But--since then," said Maggie, "you've been fond of me, haven't you?"

"It's not the same thing. I've told you that, too, a great many times.

I don't want to talk about it. It's different."

"How is it different?"

"I can't tell you."

"You mean--it's different because I'm not good."

"No, my child, I'm afraid it's different because I'm bad. That's as near as we can get to it."