Through Welsh Doorways Part 24

The physician was sent for, and while one of the men was fetching him, Samuel told Barbara at least fifty times that she would "be better the morrow," and each time Barbara, too weak for speech, nodded as much as to say that she certainly would be. When the doctor came he saw her extremity and sent Samuel and Maggie from the room. A quick examination followed.

"Samuel," said the doctor, stepping into the kitchen, "Barbara is a very sick woman."

"Aye, sir, but she'll be better the morrow."

"No, Samuel, not to-morrow."

"Not to-morrow, sir? Then next day?"

"No, man, nor the next day."

"But, sir, Barbara's never ill."

"She can never get well here."

"Not the week, sir?"

"Samuel, ye do not understand. _Barbara will never be well here._"

"Och!"

"She's dying, man; there's nothing to do for her that could be done out of Liverpool."

"Liverpool," said Samuel.

His thoughts seemed to be somewhere in the back of his mind, inaccessible, walled up from contact with the reality of what he heard and saw. He appeared unable to grasp what had happened, what was coming.

Surely he was walking in a dream, and every minute there was the chance, so he thought, that he might awake from it. What was this that had come upon him in a night? Certainly not the reality, for with that he had been living for years--that was life. Barbara was dying; the words rang oddly in his ears without reaching his mind. Some stranger was speaking with him; he did not understand. Barbara was dying; no, not Barbara, somebody else; other people _did_ die. Barbara, was dying; not his Barbara, not the mother of his children, the wife of his fireside, his companion during a lifetime. Somebody _was_ dying; no, not his Barbara but somebody else; just give him time to think. Barbara was dying--could it be his Barbara?

"Dyin'?" asked Samuel aloud, "_Barbara_ dyin'?" He repeated the words as if questioning and testing them.

"Aye, man," replied the doctor sharply, "she's dying; she's caught herself lifting something. With an operation there might be some chance; but there's none here in this place, only in Liverpool."

"Aye, Liverpool," answered Samuel, "we're goin' to Liverpool soon."

The doctor glanced at him keenly; before this he had seen childishness with some shock of grief take a sudden, unrelinquishing hold on old age.

"Well," continued Samuel, still as if talking to himself or to some one outside the room, "we'll go now; aye, we'll take the chance."

"But, man," replied the doctor, "it'll cost more money than ye spend in two years."

"No matter, sir, we'll sell the sheep, if need be. Aye, dearie," he added gently, "we'll take the chance."

"There's no time to spare, then," said the doctor looking at his watch.

"Aye," replied Samuel, "we'll be ready."

"Then be sharp about it," said the doctor, alert for the one chance of life.

"Aye, sir"; and Samuel went into the room where Barbara lay.

He looked down upon her lying in bed; he could see that her strength was slipping, slipping away. He dropped on his knees beside her. He patted her hand, he smoothed her forehead.

"Mother!" he called.

Her eyes smiled confidingly, rea.s.suringly up at him.

"Och, mother, I never thought of this!"

There came a feeble answering pat from her hand.

"Mother, we're goin' to Liverpool; aye, dear, they're goin' to make ye well."

Barbara moaned, and her eyes brimmed with tears.

"Father _dear_," she whispered, "let me--oh! Sammie--let me die--here."

"Tut, mam, ye're not goin' to die--aye, they'll be makin' ye well in Liverpool."

"Dad _dear_," she plead, "let me--die--here."

"But, mam," argued Samuel, "the lad'll be there waitin' for us--an'--an'

to see ye," he ended weakly.

"Sammie, Sammie," she begged, "let me die here--not--away--from--home; the lad--will--understand."

"Barbara, there's a chance for ye to get well; will ye not take it for me, dearie--aye, will ye not do it for me, Barbara, for my sake?"

The big eyes that had looked into his without anger, without selfishness, through all the circ.u.mstances of life, smiled now with sudden sweetness. The hand lying in his hand tightened, her lips trembled.

"Aye, Sammie, lad, I will."

"Dearie, Barbara, my Barbara!" he exclaimed, struggling to control himself. "Oh, mam, I do love ye so, an' I've not been good to ye!"

"Sammie, not been good to me? but ye have been, lad, an' I'm a bad old woman an' before I leave the house----"

"Mam _dear_, ye're not to say such things. I've found fault with ye an'

neglected ye, but ye do know I love ye?"

"Aye, lad _dear_, I know--ye--love me but I'm a bad--old--woman, an' I must tell ye before--I--leave the house----"

"Tut, mother, mother, ye're not to say such things. I'll do for ye now, oh! I will. Mam, I'd never thought of this."

"But lad," she persisted, "I'm a bad old woman an'----"

"Tut, dearie, no, no," he silenced her. "We've just a little while an' I must see about some things. I'll call Maggie an' she'll have ye all ready, dear."

Preparations were soon made, and when Maggie had her mistress wrapped up for the journey, Samuel and the doctor hastened into the room. It was evident that Barbara's strength was ebbing more and more rapidly away.

After she was lying on the stretcher she reached out a hand to Maggie.