VI

BROWN’S PERSISTENT MEMORY

“I wonder,” he said to himself an hour later, “if it’s any use to go to bed at all!” He was walking the floor with the baby in his arms.  Bim, puzzled and anxious, walked by his side, looking up at the small bundle with a glance which seemed to say, “What in the world are we going to do with it?”

Whether the feeding from the teaspoon had disagreed with its digestion could not be discovered, but clearly the baby was unhappy.  It was quiet when walked with but upon being put down immediately set up such an outcry that the bachelor, unaccustomed, could not listen to it with stoicism.  Therefore, when he had endured the sound as long as he could, he had taken the little visitor up and was now walking with it, himself in bathgown and slippers.

“It may be a pin, Bim,” said he suddenly.

He sat down before the fire, laid the baby upon its face on his knees and began cautiously to investigate.  He loosened the tiny garments one by one, until he had reached the little body and could assure himself that no sharp point was responsible for the baby’s discomfort.  He gently rubbed the small back, wondering, as he did so, at the insignificant area his hand nearly covered.  Under this treatment the wailing gradually quieted.

“Bim,” said he resignedly, “we shall have to sit up with him—­for a while, at least.”

Bim walked over to the window.

“No,” said his master, “we can’t disturb our neighbours at this time of night.  We must see it through.  If we can manage to read, it will make the time go faster.”

He reached for a book, opened it at a mark, and began to read, his hand, meanwhile, steadily maintaining the soothing motion up and down the baby’s back.  But his thoughts were not upon the page.  Instead, they took hold upon one phrase his sister had used—­one phrase, which had brought up to him a certain face as vividly as the sudden presentation of a portrait might have done.

“She’s as wonderful to look at as ever.”

Was she?  Well, she had been wonderful to look at—­there could be no question of that.  He had looked at her, and looked, and looked again, until his eyes had blurred with the dazzle of the vision.  And having looked, there could be no possible forgetting, no merciful blotting out of the recollection of that face.  He had tried to forget it, to forget the whole absorbing personality, had tried with all his strength, but the thing could not be done.  It seemed to him sometimes that the very effort to efface that image only cut its outlines deeper into his memory.

The baby began to cry afresh, with sudden, sharp insistence.  Brown took it up and strode the floor with it again.

“Poor little chap!” he murmured.  “You can’t have what you want, and I can’t have what I want.  But it doesn’t do a bit of good to cry about it—­eh?”