Kissing her, he ran out across the paddock.  In that moment he felt he would cheerfully die for her; it was not her illness that made him so tender, so unusually exalted.  He had not it in his nature to regard pain as other than interesting.  But the rending thought that she had suffered alone rather than risk his getting drunk—­that jerked him.  He felt he could beat any weakness that night, as he recalled her eyes, trying to smile at him through pain, her hands as they clung to his for help.  He lived a thousand lives during the next few hours until, at two o’clock, he heard the heart-stopping cry of a newborn child that brought stuffy London nights in the slums back to his mind for an instant until Mrs. Twist said, with an air of personal pride, that it was a boy.

And then Louis cracked again; kneeling beside Marcella, who was quite calm and very tired, he sobbed out his love and his penitence and his stern and frantic resolves for the future, his undying intention to be as good a man as she was until Mrs. Twist, who was not very used to emotional young men, packed him out of the way to take the news to Mr. Twist, who was sitting up waiting for it.

The two women had never told Mr. Twist of Louis’s tragedy.  He had guessed that he had been “on the shikker” that week he stayed away, but he took that as the ordinary thing done by ordinary men—­he himself was past “having a burst,” he had no heart for it now; but no young man was any the worse for it if it didn’t take hold of him.  And so, when Louis went there with his eyes shining, his hair wild and his hands shaking, he brought out a bottle of brandy.

“We must drink the young fellow’s health,” said Mr. Twist, pouring out a microscopic dose for himself and passing the bottle to Louis.  “I got that bottle a bit ago, as soon as mother told me your missus was like that.  You never know when a drop of brandy may save life.”

Louis refused the drink, but Mr. Twist laughed at him—­and Louis could not bear to be laughed at.  He too poured a microscopic dose, and they solemnly toasted the unnamed son.  Louis was fidgety, anxious to get back.

“Leave them alone—­they’re better alone for a bit.  All sorts of things to see to,” said the man who had weathered seven birthdays.  “Have a pipe with me.”

They smoked; Mr. Twist talked.  Louis answered vaguely, his mind with Marcella; he had suddenly determined that he could not keep his son, as well as his wife, chained in the Bush with him.  Visions of the boy growing up—­going to school—­going to the hospital to do what his father had failed to do—­floated before him.  He was making titanic resolutions for the future.  His eyes strayed past the brandy bottle.  Mr. Twist pushed it generously forward.

“Have another dose.  You need it, lad,” he said.  Louis stood up, astonishing Mr. Twist.  He was trembling violently, his forehead wet and shining, his eyes wild.

“Put the damned stuff in the fire!” he cried, and dashed off over the paddock as though a pack of devils was after him.  It was an epoch; it was the first time he had refused a drink.