A Parting of Ways
“Was the child born dead?”
“Worse than dead!”
Somehow, somewhere, Mary Cresswell had heard these words; long, long, ago, down there in the great pain-swept shadows of utter agony, where Earth seemed slipping its moorings; and now, today, she lay repeating them mechanically, grasping vaguely at their meaning. Long she had wrestled with them as they twisted and turned and knotted themselves, and she worked and toiled so hard as she lay there to make the thing clear‚ÅÝ‚Äîto understand.
“Was the child born dead?”
“Worse than dead!”
Then faint and fainter whisperings: what could be worse than death? She had tried to ask the grey old doctor, but he soothed her like a child each day and left her lying there. Today she was stronger, and for the first time sitting up, looking listlessly out across the world‚ÅÝ‚Äîa queer world. Why had they not let her see the child‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust one look at its little dead face? That would have been something. And again, as the doctor cheerily turned to go, she sought to repeat the old question. He looked at her sharply, then interrupted, saying kindly:
“There, now; you’ve been dreaming. You must rest quietly now.” And with a nod he passed into the other room to talk with her husband.