It was shortly after Lionel's departure that Estelle realized there was
nothing between her and the Indian frontier except the drawing-room
sofa. She fixed herself as firmly on this shelter as a limpet takes hold
upon a rock. People were extremely kind and sympathetic, and Winn
himself turned over a new leaf. He was gentle and considerate to her,
and offered to read aloud to her in the evenings.
Nothing shook her out of this condition. The baby arrived, unavailingly
as an incentive to health, and not at all the kind of baby Estelle had
pictured. He was almost from his first moments a thorough Staines. He
was never very kissable, and was anxious as soon as possible to get on
to his own feet. At eight months he crawled rapidly across the carpet
with a large musical-box suspended from his mouth by its handle; at ten
he could walk. He tore all his lawn frocks on Winn's spurs, screamed
with joy at his father's footsteps, and always preferred knees to laps.
His general attitude towards women was hostility, he looked upon them as
unfortunate obstacles in the path of adventure, and howled dismally when
they caressed him. He had more tolerance for his mother who seemed to
him an object provided by Providence in connection with a sofa, on
purpose for him to climb over.
Her maternal instinct went so far as to allow him to climb over it twice
a day for short intervals. After all he had gained her two years.
Estelle lay on the sofa one autumn afternoon at four o'clock, with her
eyes firmly shut. She was aware that Winn had come in, and was very
inconsiderately tramping to and fro in heavy boots. He seldom entered
the drawing-room at this hour, and if he did, he went out again as soon
as he saw that her eyes were shut.
Probably he meant to say something horrible about India; she had been
expecting it for some time. The report on Tibet was finished, and he
could let his staff work go when he liked.
He stood at the foot of her couch and looked at her curiously. Estelle
could feel his eyes on her; she wondered if he noticed how thin she
was, and how transparent her eyelids were. Every fiber in her body was
aware of her desire to impress him with her frailty. She held it before
him like a banner.
"Estelle," he said. When he spoke she winced.
"Yes, dear," she murmured hardly above a whisper.
"Would you mind opening your eyes?" he suggested. "I've got something I
want to talk over with you, and I really can't talk to a door banged in
my face."
"I'm so sorry," she said meekly; "I'm afraid I'm almost too exhausted to
talk, but I'll try to listen to what you have to say."
"Thanks," said Winn. He paused as if, after all, it wasn't easy to
begin, even in the face of this responsiveness. She thought he looked
rather odd. His eyes had a queer, dazed look, as if he had been drinking
heavily or as if somebody had kicked him.
"Well," she asked at last, "what is it you want to talk about? Suspense
of any kind, you know, is very bad for my heart."
"I beg your pardon," he said. "It was only that I thought I'd better
mention I am going to Davos."
"Davos!" She opened her eyes wide now and stared at him. "That snow
place?" she asked, "full of consumptives? What a curious idea! I never
have been able to understand how people can care to go there for sport.
It seems to me rather cruel; but, then, I know I am specially sensitive
about that kind of thing. Other people's pain weighs so on me."
"I didn't say I was going there for sport," Winn answered in the same
peculiar manner. He sat down and began to play with a paper-cutter on
his knee. "As a matter of fact, I'm not," he went on. "I've crocked one
of my lungs. They seem to think I've got to go. It's a great nuisance."
It was curious the way he kept looking at her, as if he expected
something. He couldn't have told exactly what he expected himself. He
was face to face with a new situation; he wasn't exactly frightened, but
he had a feeling that he would like very much to know how he ought to
meet it. He had often been close to death--but he had never somehow
thought of dying, he wasn't close to death now but at the end of
something which might be very horrible there would be the long affair of
dying. He hoped he would get through it all right and not make a fuss or
be a bother to anybody. It had all come with a curious suddenness. He
had gone to Travers one day because when Polly pulled he had an odd pain
in his chest. He had had a toss the week before, and it had occurred to
him that a rib might be broken; but Travers said it wasn't that.
Travers had tapped him all over and looked grave, uncommonly grave, and
said some very uncomfortable things. He had insisted on dragging Winn up
to town to see a big man, and the big man had said, "Davos, and don't
lose any time about it." He hadn't said much else, only when Winn had
remarked, "But, damn it all, you know I'm as strong as a horse," he had
answered, "You'll need every bit of strength you've got," and all the
way home Travers had talked to him like a Dutch uncle.
It was really funny when you came to think of it, because there wasn't
anything to see or even feel--except a little cough--and getting rather
hot in the evenings, but after Travers had finished pitching into him
Winn had written to Lionel and made his will and had rather wondered
what Estelle would feel about it. He hadn't wanted to upset her. He
hadn't upset her. She stared at him for a moment; then she said:
"How odd! You look perfectly all right. I never have believed in
Travers."
Winn mentioned the name of the big man.
"It does sound rather rot," he added apologetically. He still waited.
Estelle moved restlessly on the sofa.
"Well," she said, "what on earth am I to do? It's really horribly
inconvenient. I suppose I shall have to go back to my people for the
winter unless you can afford to let me take a flat in London."
"I'm afraid I can't afford that," said Winn. "I think it would be best
for you to go to your people for the winter, unless, of course, you'd
rather go to mine. I'm going down there to-morrow; I've written to tell
them. I must get my father to let me have some money as it is. It's
really an infernal nuisance from the expense point of view."
"I couldn't go to your people," said Estelle, stiffly. "They have never
been nice to me; besides, they would be sure to teach baby how to
swear." Then she added, "I suppose this puts an end to your going to
India."
Winn dropped his eyes.
"Yes," he said, "this puts an end to my going back to India for the
present. I've been up before the board; they're quite agreeable. In
fact, they've been rather decent to me."
Estelle gave a long sigh of relief and gratitude. It was really
extraordinary how she had been helped to avoid India. She couldn't think
what made Winn go on sitting there, just playing with the paper-knife.
He sat there for a long time, but he didn't say any more. At last he got
up and went to the door.
"Well," he said, "I think I'll just run up and have a look at the kid."
"Poor dear," said Estelle, "I'm frightfully sorry for you, of course,
though I don't believe it's at all painful--and by the way, Winn, don't
forget that consumption is infectious."
He stopped short as if someone had struck him. After all, he didn't go
to the nursery; she heard him go down the passage to the smoking-room
instead.