Chapter 6

Daniel held the child in his arms, and looked at it carefully but without love. “You little worm, what do you want in this world?” he said to his daughter. He still had his hat on; so had Eleanore. Both of them were dressed just as they came from the station; they were embarrassed and excited at what had happened. Eleanore was exceedingly pale; her great eyes looked dreamy; her body seemed of almost boyish slenderness. At times she smiled; then the smile died away, as if she did not have the courage to appear so cheerful.

Inspector Jordan was also in the room, acting as he had always acted since his bankruptcy—like a guest who feels that he is a burden to the family. He said very humbly: “I have suggested to Gertrude that she call the child Agnes after my deceased wife.”

“Very well, let’s call her Agnes,” said Daniel.

Gertrude asked that the child be brought to her so that she could nurse it. Eleanore carried it over and laid it at her breast. As the hands of the sisters touched, Gertrude looked up quickly: there was an indescribable expression of thoughtfulness, knowingness, and kindliness on her face. Eleanore fell on her knees, threw her arms around Gertrude’s neck, and kissed her passionately. Gertrude reached out her left hand to Daniel; he gave her his right hand with some hesitancy. Jordan was radiant with joy: “It is so good, children, to see that you all love each other, so good,” he said with visible emotion.

“Daniel, you must move up into Father’s quarters at once,” said Gertrude. “Your piano, bed, and all your things must be taken up, and Eleanore will move into your room. I have already spoken to Father about it, and he feels that it will be a good arrangement. He will be very quiet so as not disturb you. The crying of the baby would make it impossible for you to work.”

“It is a very practical solution of the problem,” said Jordan, speaking for Daniel, and looked down at his frayed coat-sleeves, which he tried to conceal by hiding them behind his back. “I am also glad that Eleanore will be with you. A man, you know, has a habit of going to bed long before a woman quits her daily work. Is that not true, my son-in-law?” With that he clapped Daniel on the shoulder.

“During Gertrude’s confinement I will sleep here in her room,” said Eleanore, avoiding Daniel’s eyes as she said so. “She cannot stay alone, and it costs too much to keep a nurse.”

“Exactly,” said Jordan, and went to the door. But he turned around: “I should like to know,” he asked in a tone of great grief, “who has been at Gertrude’s and Eleanore’s pictures. The one is covered with spots of blood, and the other has a hole punched in it. Isn’t that very strange? I can’t understand it: I can’t imagine who could have done me this injury.” He shook his head and went out.

“Do you realise that to-morrow is the first of November?” asked Gertrude. “Have you the rent ready? Did Father make any money last month?”

“No, he didn’t,” replied Eleanore, “but I have almost enough to pay the landlord.”

It was no longer possible to depend upon Jordan. He was supported by his children, and seemed to find the arrangement neither strange nor humiliating. At times he would allude in a mysterious way to a big enterprise that was going to claim the whole of his attention and bring him a great deal of money and honour. But if you asked him about it, he would wrinkle his brow and put his finger to his lips.

“I owe the man more than the rent,” said Daniel. He kissed Gertrude on the forehead, and went out.

“Put the child in the cradle, and come over here,” said Gertrude to Eleanore, as soon as Daniel had closed the door behind him. Eleanore did as she had been told. The baby was asleep. She took it up, looked at its wrinkled face, and carried it to the cradle. Then she went over to Gertrude’s bed.

Gertrude seized her by her hands, and drew her down to her with more strength than one would have imagined her to have just then. The eyes of the two women were drawn close together. “You must make him happy, Eleanore,” she said in a hoarse voice, and with a sickly glimmer in her eyes. “If you do not, it would be better if one of us were dead.”

Despite her terror, Eleanore loosened Gertrude’s hold on her with great gentleness. “It is hard to discuss that subject, Gertrude; it is hard to live and hard to think about it all.” Eleanore breathed these words into Gertrude’s ears.

“You must make him happy; you must make him happy! Repeat it to yourself and keep it in your mind every day, every hour, every minute. You must, you must, you must.” Gertrude was almost beside herself.

“I will learn how to do it,” replied Eleanore slowly and seriously. “I am ... I hardly know what I am or how I feel. But be patient with me, Gertrude, I will learn how to make him happy.” She looked into Gertrude’s face with anxious curiosity. Gertrude however pressed her hands against Eleanore’s cheeks, drew her down to her again, and kissed her with unusual fervour. “I too must learn how,” whispered Gertrude, “I must learn the whole of life from the very beginning.”

Some one knocked at the door. The midwife came in to look after her patient.