“Do come in for a few moments,” she said. “I want very much to speak to
you.” Here she groaned.
“But—” I began. There was something very offensive, after being cast off
as I had been, in the assumption that I should be ready to be taken on
again whenever the relenting mood occurred to them. Nor had I shaken her
hand.
She burst forthwith into tears and I entered the car. I could not (as
she knew) allow her to make an exhibition of herself at the window, with
the chauffeur looking on.
“Dr. Greville,” she said, “I am a very miserable woman. Don’t be hard on
me. I have been punished enough.” She groaned again, among the sobs.
“Tell me as quickly as possible,” I said. “I want to get on. My rounds
are not finished yet.”
“I knew you would come back this way,” she said, “and I intercepted you.
It is so little that I am able to do alone. That letter, now—it was not
my letter, I did not wish it, it was Sir Edmund’s. Sir Edmund was
implacable, but I—I knew that blame cannot be cast like that, just on
one, and Ronnie was so fascinating, how could a girl help falling in love
with him? But Sir Edmund could not see it. All he could see was Rose as
a temptress and the ruin of his son and his name. You know how I have to
give way to him? Believe me, I have regretted it ever since, and nothing
but very wicked pride—we were always so proud, we Ancasters—has kept me
from trying to see you sooner. But now my pride is humbled. Poor Sir
Edmund—I don’t know what he would say if he knew I was talking to you
like this—poor Sir Edmund is ill, and you must forgive us for his sake.
Say you will. No doctor but you inspires any confidence. We have tried
so many.”
“I forgave you long ago,” I said.
“Then you will come to the Hall again? Quickly? Will you? Sir Edmund
is ill. I don’t know what it is, but something grave, something new and
mysterious. Never mind about me”—she groaned again—“but he, poor
darling! he must be looked after, he must be healed. You will do this
for my sake? You will come to us again?”
“I must think about it,” I said. “It is not quite as simple as you seem
to suppose. I have been very oddly treated in a very public manner.”
“I know you’ll come,” she cried, as I returned to my car. “You have such
a good heart and I am so penitent.”
That evening I was sitting over my cigar after dinner—Rose having gone to
bed—when the servant announced a gentleman to see me.
“What name?” I asked, for I was enjoying some well-earned repose, and
indiscriminate callers had to be guarded against; but before she could
reply a muffled-up figure was in the room. Removing his scarf, cap and
goggles, he revealed himself as Sir Edmund Fergusson.
“You must excuse this visit,” he began nervously, “after what has
happened, but it has been on my mind for a long while to explain.”
“Won’t you sit down?” I said.
“You are very kind,” he replied, taking a seat, while a spasm of pain
crossed his heavy features. “The fact is—but that has nothing to do with
it. What I want to do is to explain. This unhappy business of Ronnie
has broken us up, but I want you to know—” He broke off and again a
twinge took him.
“Would you mind if I were to light my pipe?” he asked.