FOREBODINGS
I am very weary. In the old days, before my accident, it was my boast
that I was never tired. Perhaps the exertion of conciliating Peter, of
trying to keep the peace between him and Amelia, has been too much for
me these sultry days. I know not. But I do know that I am always
tired. The sort of tiredness which makes me say, "Go away, Amelia,"
when she brings my hot water, and lays my tea-gown and brush and comb
on the bed, and the long arduous task of being dressed lies before me.
"Leave me for another hour, please." And of course she argues and says
the water will go cold; and I tell her I prefer it so, closing my eyes
wearily to show that the discussion is finished.
She surveys me, I know, in surprise. How can I be tired when I do
absolutely nothing but lie still, when she is quite fresh after doing
the whole work of the universe? "Amelia, there is a weariness of the
spirit which is greater than that of the flesh. You cannot understand
this. A weariness which leads you to no other desire but that of lying
quite still with your eyes closed, which makes you regard the simple
act of combing out your own hair as tantamount to one of the Herculean
labours. You would almost prefer its being tangled to going through
the exertion of getting it straight. That you would like to
disentangle it for me, I know, but I shudder at the very thought. You
are kind, but you don't understand how very tired I am. I want to rest
a little longer."
Even the prospect of being under the apple tree, in the proximity of my
friends the ants, doesn't tempt me. The dressing has to be got through
first. It hurts--the lifting from the bed to the couch--though Amelia
is very tender. It jars--that being wheeled from the hall on to the
step. I want to be without steps and doors, and corners and turnings
and sudden descents. I want to be on a gentle, inclined plane--on a
soft, billowy cloud, on wings of thistledown. I am tired of my body.
It is troublesome and aching. I would gladly have done with it to-day.
Oh, that I could step out of it and into a new, whole, strong
body--radiant and beautiful--for Dimbie's sake.
It is hard that these bodies have to get so tired before we have done
with them. God sends this weariness, I suppose, to make the passing
easier. I am thinking of Aunt Letitia now. She has gone, she has done
with the world, she knows what is behind the veil.
Dimbie says she just slept herself away. She was conscious almost to
the last, but was too tired even to eat a grape. Then she fell asleep.
Dimbie will be coming home now, but--not for four days. Four days seem
a long time in which to bury a very tired, little, old lady. What am I
saying? Am I growing selfish? "Forgive me, Aunt Letitia. I will
_not_ grudge Dimbie to you at the last, when you have done so much for
him." And the time will pass, for mother and Peter are still here, and
one cannot be dull when Peter is in the neighbourhood.
I hear Amelia's footsteps. She enters the room and tells me I _must_
get up. It is useless asking her to permit me to have "a little
slumber, a little sleep, a little folding of the hands to sleep," for
she tells me that it is dining-room day, which means that she must
clean it, and cannot waste any more time on an idle, troublesome girl.
I ask her if I may lie in Nature's own garments under the apple tree,
with just a soft, silken coverlet thrown over me; and she is
scandalised, and says most probably Mr. Brook, the vicar, or Mrs.
Cobbold may call.
"Amelia," I say, "I am tired of your threatening me with Mr. Brook. We
have lived here for six months, and he does not seem to be dreaming of
calling upon us. As for Mrs. Cobbold--well, she will never call again."
"Mr. Brook has been ill," she argues.
"Mrs. Brook might have called."
"She has been too busy nursing him."
"Poor woman! She must be quite glad of an excuse, then, not to call,"
I said. "I have the truest sympathy for clergymen's wives, always
going to see stupid parishioners because it is considered their duty.
I only hope she will not call."
"We never use the best china," said Amelia sadly.
"Use it while mother is here," I said cheeringly; "it will be a good
opportunity."
She shook her head.
"It's too good for common use. Mrs. Macintosh might stay a fortnight,
and _he_ might smash it." ("_He_" is Peter.)
I ask her what they are doing with themselves, and she says Peter is
scrattlin' his feet about on the doorstep like an old hen.
She attacks me with a brush, and I implore her to permit my hair to
hang loose to-day. I explain that it is all in a tangle, and perhaps a
passing breeze might disentangle it, so saving us much trouble. She
regards me severely, and says no breeze will think of knocking about,
that it is about 80 degrees in the shade, and that if I wish Mr. Brook
to see me, of course--
"Put it up," I cry; "and if you dangle Mr. Brook in front of my eyes
_once_ again I will throw something at you."
She tells me to calm myself, and, picking me up, lays me on the couch
and trundles me out of the front door.
And here I lie refusing to do anything but gaze at the soft, white,
eider-down clouds which seem to be trying to tuck up the blue. Amelia
has tried to make me eat. I have refused. Mother has tried to engage
me in a conversation about Dimbie--artful mother! I have refused.
Peter has tried to draw me into a quarrel. I have still refused. And
now they have all gone away and left me. Praised be the gods!
* * * * *
As the shadows began to lengthen upon the lawn I fell asleep, and when
I opened my eyes, very slowly, for I did not want to return to a world
without Dimbie, I found Dr. Renton sitting at the side of my couch
watching me intently. I fancied that he had been there for some time,
and I felt vaguely uneasy.
"May I smoke?" was his first question.
"Of course," I said. "Have you been here long?"
"About half an hour." He struck a match.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"You had a bad night?"
I nodded.
"It was the heat."
"Where's your husband? It's time he was home, isn't it?" He took out
his watch.
"He's away."
"Away! Well, he's no right to be away when you are so--feeling the
heat. What's he doing?"
"My husband was obliged to go to an aunt of his who was dying," I said
with dignity.
"What does she mean by dying now?" he said with asperity.
"She's not, she's dead."
"Ah, that's better!" he observed in a most shameless manner. "He will
be returning to-day?"
"Not for four days. He must wait for the funeral. This aunt
practically brought him up."
"Well, she's not bringing him up now," he said, marching about the
lawn. "His duty lies at home."
"Dimbie knows his duty as well as any man," I said stiffly.
Dr. Renton laughed.
"I beg your pardon, but----"
"You think I am fretting for him?"
"Yes, I do. Your face is like a bit of white notepaper."
"The heat," I said.
"Are you eating properly?"
"Who could eat in this weather?"
"Are you sleeping well?"
"Dr. Renton, I don't want to talk of myself."
"But we must. What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing."
"Are you tired?"
"I have just been to sleep."
"Look here, Marguerite," he said sternly, sitting down and staring into
my face, "answer my questions properly--I am your medical adviser--or I
will call in Mr. Rovell; in fact, I am going to persuade Rovell to have
a look at you in any case."
"Call in Mr. Rovell?" I said blankly.
He nodded.
"Candidly, I am not satisfied with your appearance. You are much
thinner."
"Mr. Rovell can't make me fatter."
"I shall bring him this week--say Thursday."
I stared at him, dismayed and frightened.
"I don't see the sense of making Dimbie fork out another big fee," I
quavered, "and I'm--I'm quite well."
"Are you? How's the back?"
"It's quite--well, thanks."
"I thought you were truthful."
"Well, it's pretty well."
"Marguerite," he said gently, holding my hand, "I don't want to
frighten you. As you say, your white, rose-leaf face and hands may be
the result of the great heat, but--I think it well to have another
opinion. It cannot do you any harm, it may do you good, and at any
rate it will satisfy me."
[Illustration: MARGUERITE, I DON'T WANT TO FRIGHTEN YOU]
"Very well," I said, laying my face on his hand for a moment, "but
I--_am_ frightened."
"I know," he replied. "I have seen fear, sickening anxiety, written on
the faces of many of my patients when the great specialist--the man who
will pronounce their doom or otherwise--has entered the room, only to
be followed by a great joy. We must hope and pray that this joy will
be yours. It must be," he said almost savagely, getting up and kicking
over his chair. "You are too young always to lie still." The last
words were muttered to himself but I caught them, and a momentary
darkness rose before my eyes, but I brushed it away as something
tangible.
"You--but you do think it will be well with me, Dr. Renton?" and the
bitter entreaty of my cry startled my own ears.
Voices came across the garden, and mother and Peter appeared through
the gate.
Dr. Renton hesitated a moment, and then went to meet them.
My question remained unanswered.