resentful and confused. He let his chin sink upon his chest, stretched out his legs, stared broodingly into the fire.
He remained like this so long, and his thoughts were so filled with Christine, that he started when the old woman opposite suddenly addressed him. Her meditation had pursued a different course.
‘Susan said not to give her the chloroform if it would harm the baby. She’s full set upon this child, doctor, bach.’ Her old eyes warmed at a sudden thought. She added in a low tone, ‘Ay, we all are, I fancy.’
He collected himself with an effort.
‘It won’t do any harm, the anaesthetic,’ he said kindly. ‘They’ll be all right.’
Here the nurse’s voice was heard calling from the top landing. Andrew glanced at the clock which now showed half past three. He rose and went up to the bedroom. He perceived that he might now begin his work.
An hour elapsed. It was a long harsh struggle. Then, as the first streaks of dawn strayed past the broken edges of the blind, the child was born, lifeless.
As he gazed at the still form a shiver of horror passed over Andrew. After all that he had promised! His face, heated with his own exertions, chilled suddenly. He hesitated, torn between his desire to attempt to resuscitate the child, and his obligation towards the mother who was herself in a desperate state. The dilemma was so urgent he did not solve it consciously. Blindly, instinctively, he gave the child to the nurse and turned his attention to Susan Morgan who now lay collapsed, almost pulseless, and not yet out of the ether, upon her side. His haste was desperate, a frantic race against her ebbing strength. It took him only an instant to smash a glass ampoule and inject pituitrin. Then he flung down the hypodermic syringe and worked unsparingly to restore the flaccid woman. After a few minutes of feverish effort, her heart strengthened, he saw that he might safely leave her. He swung round, in his shirt sleeves, his hair sticking to his damp brow.
‘Where’s the child?’
The midwife made a frightened gesture. She had placed it beneath the bed.
In a flash Andrew knelt down. Fishing amongst the sodden newspapers below the bed he pulled out the child. A boy, perfectly formed. The limp warm body was white and soft as tallow. The cord, hastily slashed, lay like a broken stem. The skin was of a lovely texture, smooth and tender. The head lolled on the thin neck. The limbs seemed boneless.
Still kneeling, Andrew stared at the child with a haggard frown. The whiteness meant only one thing: asphyxia pallida, and his mind, unnaturally tense, raced back to a case he once had seen in the Samaritan, to the treatment that had been used. Instantly he was on his feet.
‘Get me hot water and cold water,’ he threw out to the nurse. ‘And basins, too. Quick! Quick!’
‘But, doctor –’ she faltered, her eyes on the pallid body of the child.
‘Quick!’ he shouted.
Snatching a blanket he laid the child upon it and began the special method of respiration. The basins arrived, the ewer, the big iron kettle. Frantically he splashed cold water into one basin; into the other he mixed water as hot as his hand could bear. Then, like some crazy juggler, he hurried the child between the two, now plunging it into the icy, now into the steaming bath.
Fifteen minutes passed. Sweat was now running into Andrew’s eyes, blinding him. One of his sleeves hung down, dripping. His breath came pantingly. But no breath came from the lax body of the child.
A desperate sense of defeat pressed on him, a raging hopelessness. He felt the midwife watching him in stark consternation while there, pressed back against the wall, where she had all the time remained, her hand pressed to her throat, uttering no sound, her eyes burning upon him, was the old woman. He remembered her longing for a grandchild, as great as had been her daughter’s longing for this child. All dashed away, futile, beyond remedy.
The floor was now a draggled
He remained like this so long, and his thoughts were so filled with Christine, that he started when the old woman opposite suddenly addressed him. Her meditation had pursued a different course.
‘Susan said not to give her the chloroform if it would harm the baby. She’s full set upon this child, doctor, bach.’ Her old eyes warmed at a sudden thought. She added in a low tone, ‘Ay, we all are, I fancy.’
He collected himself with an effort.
‘It won’t do any harm, the anaesthetic,’ he said kindly. ‘They’ll be all right.’
Here the nurse’s voice was heard calling from the top landing. Andrew glanced at the clock which now showed half past three. He rose and went up to the bedroom. He perceived that he might now begin his work.
An hour elapsed. It was a long harsh struggle. Then, as the first streaks of dawn strayed past the broken edges of the blind, the child was born, lifeless.
As he gazed at the still form a shiver of horror passed over Andrew. After all that he had promised! His face, heated with his own exertions, chilled suddenly. He hesitated, torn between his desire to attempt to resuscitate the child, and his obligation towards the mother who was herself in a desperate state. The dilemma was so urgent he did not solve it consciously. Blindly, instinctively, he gave the child to the nurse and turned his attention to Susan Morgan who now lay collapsed, almost pulseless, and not yet out of the ether, upon her side. His haste was desperate, a frantic race against her ebbing strength. It took him only an instant to smash a glass ampoule and inject pituitrin. Then he flung down the hypodermic syringe and worked unsparingly to restore the flaccid woman. After a few minutes of feverish effort, her heart strengthened, he saw that he might safely leave her. He swung round, in his shirt sleeves, his hair sticking to his damp brow.
‘Where’s the child?’
The midwife made a frightened gesture. She had placed it beneath the bed.
In a flash Andrew knelt down. Fishing amongst the sodden newspapers below the bed he pulled out the child. A boy, perfectly formed. The limp warm body was white and soft as tallow. The cord, hastily slashed, lay like a broken stem. The skin was of a lovely texture, smooth and tender. The head lolled on the thin neck. The limbs seemed boneless.
Still kneeling, Andrew stared at the child with a haggard frown. The whiteness meant only one thing: asphyxia pallida, and his mind, unnaturally tense, raced back to a case he once had seen in the Samaritan, to the treatment that had been used. Instantly he was on his feet.
‘Get me hot water and cold water,’ he threw out to the nurse. ‘And basins, too. Quick! Quick!’
‘But, doctor –’ she faltered, her eyes on the pallid body of the child.
‘Quick!’ he shouted.
Snatching a blanket he laid the child upon it and began the special method of respiration. The basins arrived, the ewer, the big iron kettle. Frantically he splashed cold water into one basin; into the other he mixed water as hot as his hand could bear. Then, like some crazy juggler, he hurried the child between the two, now plunging it into the icy, now into the steaming bath.
Fifteen minutes passed. Sweat was now running into Andrew’s eyes, blinding him. One of his sleeves hung down, dripping. His breath came pantingly. But no breath came from the lax body of the child.
A desperate sense of defeat pressed on him, a raging hopelessness. He felt the midwife watching him in stark consternation while there, pressed back against the wall, where she had all the time remained, her hand pressed to her throat, uttering no sound, her eyes burning upon him, was the old woman. He remembered her longing for a grandchild, as great as had been her daughter’s longing for this child. All dashed away, futile, beyond remedy.
The floor was now a draggled
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