IN THE SICK-ROOM.
_A riddle that one shrinks
To challenge from the scornful sphinx._
D. G. ROSSETTI.
The doctor's verdict was unhesitating enough. Phyllis's doom, as more
than one who knew her foresaw, was sealed. The shock and the exposure
had only hastened an end which for long had been inevitable.
Consumption, complicated with heart disease, both in advanced stages,
held her in their grasp; added to these, a severe bronchial attack had
set in since the night of the snowstorm, and her life might be said to
hang by a thread. It might be a matter of days, said the cautious
physician, of weeks, or even months.
"Would a journey to the south, at an earlier stage of her illness, have
availed to save her?" Gertrude asked, with white, mechanical lips.
It was possible, was the answer, that it would have prolonged her life.
But almost from the first, it seemed, the shadow of the grave must have
rested on this beautiful human blossom.
"Death in her face," muttered Mrs. Maryon, grimly; "I saw it there, I
have always seen it."
Meanwhile, people came and went in Upper Baker Street; sympathetic,
inquisitive, bustling.
Fanny, dismayed and tearful, appeared daily at the invalid's bedside,
laden with grapes and other delicacies.
"Poor old Fan," said Phyllis; "how shocked she would be if she knew
everything. Don't you think it is your duty, Gerty, to Mr. Marsh, to let
him know?"
Aunt Caroline drove across from Lancaster Gate, rebuke implied in every
fold of her handsome dress.
"I cannot think," she remarked to her friends, "how Gertrude could have
reconciled such culpable neglect of that poor child's health to her
conscience."
Gertrude avoided her aunt, saying to herself, in the bitterness of her
humiliation: "It is the Aunt Carolines of this world who are right. I
ought to have listened to her. She understood human nature better than
I."
The Devonshires, who had not long returned from Germany, were
unremitting in their kindness, the slackened bonds between the two
families growing tight once more in this hour of need.
Lord Watergate made regular inquiries in Baker Street. Gertrude found
his presence more endurable than that of the people with whom she had to
dissemble; he knew her secret; it was safe with him and she was almost
glad that he knew it.
Gertrude had written a brief note to Lucy, telling her that Phyllis was
very ill, but urging her to remain a week, at least, in Cornwall.
"She will need all the strength she can get up," thought Gertrude. She
herself was performing prodigies of work without any conscious effort.
Frozen, tense, silent, she vibrated between the studio and the
sick-room, moving as if in obedience to some hidden mechanism, a
creature apparently without wants, emotions, or thoughts.
She had gathered from Phyllis' cynically frank remarks, that it was by
the merest chance she had not been too late and that Darrell had
returned to The Sycamores.
"We were going to cross on our way to Italy that very night," Phyllis
said. "We drove to Charing Cross, and then the snow began to fall, and I
had such a fit of coughing that Sidney was frightened, and took me home
to St. John's Wood."
Gertrude, who had received these confidences in silence, turned her head
away with an involuntary, instinctive movement of repugnance at the
mention of Darrell's Christian name.
"Gerty," said Phyllis, who lay back among the pillows, a white ghost
with two burning red spots on her cheeks, "Gerty, it is only fair that I
should tell you: Sidney isn't as bad as you think. He went away in the
summer, because he was beginning to care about me too much; he only came
back because he simply couldn't help himself. And--and, you will go out
of the room and never speak to me again--I knew he had a wife, Gerty; I
heard them talking about her at the Oakleys, the very first day I saw
him. She was his model; she drinks like a fish, and is ten years older
than he is----I put that in the letter about getting married, because I
didn't quite know how to say it. I thought that very likely you knew."
Gertrude had walked to the window, and was pulling down the blind with
stiff, blundering fingers. It was growing dusk and in less than half an
hour Lucy would be home. It was just a week since she had set out for
Cornwall.
"Shall you tell Lucy?" came the childish voice from among the pillows.
"I don't know. Lie still, Phyllis, and I will see if Mrs. Maryon has
prepared the jelly for you."
"Kind old thing, Mrs. Maryon."
"Yes, indeed. She quite ignores the fact that we have no possible claim
on her."
Gertrude met Mrs. Maryon on the dusky stairs, dish in hand.
"Do go and lie down, Miss Lorimer; or we shall have you knocked up too,
and where should we be then? You mustn't let Miss Lucy see you like
that."
Gertrude obeyed mechanically. Going into the sitting-room, she threw
herself on the little hard sofa, her face pressed to the pillow.
She must have fallen into a doze, for the next thing of which she was
aware was Lucy's voice in her ear, and opening her eyes she saw Lucy
bending over her, candle in hand.
"Have you seen her?" she asked, sitting up with a dazed air.
"I am back this very minute. Gertrude, what have you been doing to
yourself?"
"Oh, I am all right." She rose with a little smile. "Let me look at you,
Lucy. Actually roses on your cheek."
"Gertrude, Gertrude, what has happened to you? Have I come--Oh, Gerty,
have I come too late?"
"No," said Gertrude, "but she is very ill."
Lucy put her arms round her sister.
"And I have left you alone through these days. Oh, my poor Gerty."
They went upstairs together, and Lucy passed into the invalid's room,
Gertrude remaining in the outer apartment, which was her own.
In about ten minutes Lucy came out sobbing. "Oh, Phyllis, Phyllis," she
wept below her breath.
Gertrude, paler than ever, rose without a word, and went into the
sick-room.
"Poor old Lucy, she looked as if she were going to cry. I asked her if
she had any message for Frank," said Phyllis, as her sister sat down
beside her, and adjusted the lamp.
"You are over-exciting yourself. Lie still, Phyllis."
"But, Gerty, I feel ever so much better to-night."
Silence. Gertrude sewed, and the invalid lay with closed eyes, but the
flutter of the long lashes told that she was not asleep.
"Gerty!" In about half an hour the grey eyes had unclosed, and were
fixed widely on her sister's face.
"What is it?"
"Gerty, am I really going to die?"
"You are very ill," said Gertrude, in a low voice.
"But to die--it seems so impossible, so difficult, somehow. Frank died;
that was wonderful enough; but oneself!"
"Oh, my child," broke from Gertrude's lips.
"Don't be sorry. I have never been a nice person, but I don't funk
somehow. I ought to, after being such a bad lot, but I don't. Gerty!"
"What is it?"
"Gerty, you have always been good to me; this last week as well. But
that is the worst of you good people; you are hard as stones. You bring
me jelly; you sit up all night with me--but you have never forgiven me.
You know that is the truth."
Gertrude knelt by the bedside, a great compunction in her heart; she put
her hand on that of Phyllis, who went on--
"And there is something I should wish to tell you. I am glad you came
and fetched me away. The very moment I saw your angry, white face, and
your old clothes with the snow on, I was glad. It is funny, if one comes
to think of it. I was frightened, but I was glad."
Gertrude's head drooped lower and lower over the coverlet; her heart,
which had been frozen within her, melted. In an agony of love, of
remorse, she stretched out her arms, while her sobs came thick and fast,
and gathered the wasted figure to her breast.
"Oh, Phyllis, oh, my child; who am I to forgive you? Is it a question of
forgiveness between us? Oh, Phyllis, my little Phyllis, have you
forgotten how I love you?"
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]