CHAPTER XXXI

THE DEEPEST SHADOW

As I entered the house, the sound of Aunt Euphronasia's crooning fell on
my ears, and going into the nursery, I found Sally sitting by the
window, with the child on her knees, while the old negress waved a
palm-leaf fan back and forth with a slow, rhythmic movement. A
night-lamp burned, with lowered wick, on the bureau, and as Sally looked
up at me, I saw that her face had grown wan and haggard since I had left
her.

"The baby was taken very ill just after you went," she said; "we feared
a convulsion, and I sent one of the neighbours' children for the doctor.
It may be only the heat, he says, but he is coming again at midnight."

"I had hoped you would be able to get off in the morning."

"No, not now. The baby is too ill. In a few days, perhaps, if he is
better."

Her voice broke, and kneeling beside her, I clasped them both in my
arms, while the anguish in my heart rose suddenly like a wild beast to
my throat.

"What can I do, Sally?" I asked passionately. "What can I do?"

"Nothing, dear, nothing. Only be quiet."

Only be quiet! Rising to my feet I walked softly to the end of the room,
and then turning came back again to the spot where I had knelt. At the
moment I longed to knock down something, to strangle something, to pull
to earth and destroy as a beast destroys in a rage. Through the open
window I could see a full moon shining over a magnolia, and the very
softness and quiet of the moonlight appeared, in some strange way, to
increase my suffering. A faint breeze, scented with jessamine, blew
every now and then from the garden, rising, dying away, and rising
again, until it waved the loosened tendrils of hair on Sally's neck. The
odour, also, like the moonlight, mingled, while I stood there, and was
made one with the anguish in my thoughts. Again I walked the length of
the room, and again I turned and came back to the window beside which
Sally sat. My foot as I moved stumbled upon something soft and round,
and stooping to pick it up, I saw that it was a rubber doll, dropped by
little Benjamin when he had grown too ill or too tired to play. I laid
it in Sally's work-basket on the table, and then throwing off my coat,
flung myself into a chair in one corner. A minute afterwards I rose, and
walking gently through the long window, looked on the garden, which lay
dim and fragrant under the moonlight. On the porch, twining in and out
of the columns, the star jess