A SCENTED LETTER
There is no exhaustion more complete or more compelling than the
exhaustion of grief, and it is the most restless temperaments that
usually suffer from it the most keenly. It is those who have watched
constantly, tirelessly, selflessly, for weeks or even months, for whom
the final breakdown is the most utter and the most heartrending.
To Daisy, lying silent in her darkened room, the sudden ending of the
prolonged strain, the cessation of the anxiety that had become a part
of her very being, was more intolerable than the sense of desolation
itself. It lay upon her like a physical, crushing weight, this absence
of care, numbing all her faculties. She felt that the worst had
happened to her, the ultimate blow had fallen, and she cared for
nought besides.
In those first days of her grief she saw none but Muriel and the
doctor. Jim Ratcliffe was more uneasy about her than he would
admit. He knew as no one else knew what the strain had been upon the
over-sensitive nerves, and how terribly the shock had wrenched them.
He also knew that her heart was still in a very unsatisfactory state,
and for many hours he dreaded collapse.
He was inclined to be uneasy upon Muriel's account as well, at first,
but she took him completely by surprise. Without a question, without a
word, simply as a matter of course, she assumed the position of
nurse and constant companion to her friend. Her resolution and steady
self-control astonished him, but he soon saw that these were qualities
upon which he could firmly rely. She had put her own weakness behind
her, and in face of Daisy's utter need she had found strength.
He suffered her to have her way, seeing how close was the bond of
sympathy between them, and realising that the very fact of supporting
Daisy would be her own support.
"You are as steady-going as a professional," he told her once.
To which she answered with her sad smile, "I served my probation in
the school of sorrow last year. I am only able to help her because I
know what it is to sit in ashes."
He patted her shoulder and called her a good girl. He was growing very
fond of her, and in his blunt, unflattering way he let her know it.
Certain it was that in those terrible days following her bereavement,
Daisy clung to her as she had never before clung to any one, scarcely
speaking to her, but mutely leaning upon her steadfast strength.
Muriel saw but little of Blake though he was never far away. He
wandered miserably about the house and garden, smoking endless
cigarettes, and invariably asking her with a piteous, dog-like
wistfulness whenever they met if there were nothing that he could do.
There never was anything, but she had not the heart to tell him
so, and she used to invent errands for him to make him happier. She
herself did not go beyond the garden for many days.
One evening, about three weeks after her baby's death, Daisy heard his
step on the gravel below her window and roused herself a little.
"Who is taking care of Blake?" she asked.
Muriel glanced down from where she sat at the great listless figure
nearing the house. "I think he is taking care of himself," she said.
"All alone?" said Daisy.
"Yes, dear."
Daisy uttered a sudden hard sigh. "You mustn't spend all your time
with me any longer," she said. "I have been very selfish. I forgot. Go
down to him, Muriel."
Muriel looked up, struck by something incomprehensible in her
tone. "You know I like to be with you," she said. "And of course he
understands."
But Daisy would not be satisfied. "That may be. But--but--I want you
to go to him. He is lonely, poor boy. I can hear it in his step. I
always know."
Wondering at her persistence, and somewhat reluctant, Muriel rose
to comply. As she was about to pass her, with a swift movement Daisy
caught her hand and drew her down.
"I want you--so--to be happy, dearest," she whispered, a quick note of
passion in her voice. "It's better for you--it's better for you--to
be together. I'm not going to monopolise you any longer. I will try
to come down to-morrow, if Jim will let me. It's hockey day, isn't it?
You must go and play as usual, you and he."
She was quivering with agitation as she pressed her lips to the girl's
cheek. Muriel would have embraced her, but she pushed her softly away.
"Go--go, dear," she insisted. "I wish it."
And Muriel went, seeing that she would not otherwise be pacified.
She found Blake depressed indeed, but genuinely pleased to see her,
and she walked in the garden with him in the soft spring twilight till
the dinner hour.
Just as they were about to go in, the postman appeared with foreign
letters for them both, which proved to be from Sir Reginald and Lady
Bassett.
The former had written briefly but very kindly to Grange, signifying
his consent to his engagement to his ward, and congratulating him upon
having won her. To Muriel he sent a fatherly message, telling her of
his pleasure at hearing of her happiness, and adding that he hoped she
would return to them in the following autumn to enable him to give her
away.
Grange put his arm round his young _fiancée_ as he read this passage
aloud, but she only stood motionless within it, not yielding to his
touch. It even seemed to him that she stiffened slightly. He looked at
her questioningly and saw that she was very pale.
"What is it?" he asked gently. "Will that be too soon for you?"
She met his eyes frankly, but with unmistakable distress. "I--I didn't
think it would be quite so soon, Blake," she faltered. "I don't want
to be married at present. Can't we go on as we are for a little? Shall
you mind?"
Blake's face wore a puzzled look, but it was wholly free from
resentment. He answered her immediately and reassuringly.
"Of course not, dear. It shall be just when you like. Why should you
be hurried?"
She gave him a smile of relief and gratitude, and he stooped and
kissed her forehead with a soothing tenderness that he might have
bestowed upon a child.
It was with some reluctance that she opened Lady Bassett's letter
in his presence, but she felt that she owed him this small mark of
confidence.
There was a strong aroma of attar of roses as she drew it from the
envelope, and she glanced at Grange with an expression of disgust.
"What is the matter?" he asked. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"It's only the scent," she explained, concealing a faint sense of
irritation.
He smiled. "Don't you like it? I thought all women did."
"My dear Blake!" she said, and shuddered.
The next minute she threw a sharp look over her shoulder, suddenly
assailed by an uncanny feeling that Nick was standing grimacing at
her elbow. She saw his features so clearly for the moment with his
own peculiarly hideous grimace upon them that she scarcely persuaded
herself that her fancy had tricked her. But there was nothing but the
twilight of the garden all around her, and Blake's huge bulk by her
side, and she promptly dismissed the illusion, not without a sense of
shame.
With a gesture of impatience she unfolded Lady Bassett's letter. It
commenced "Dearest Muriel," and proceeded at once in terms of flowing
elegance to felicitate her upon her engagement to Blake Grange.
"In according our consent," wrote Lady Bassett, "Sir Reginald and I
have not the smallest scruple or hesitation. Only, dearest, for Blake
Grange's sake as well as for your own, make quite sure _this time_
that your mind is fully made up, and your choice final."
When Muriel read this passage a deep note of resentment crept into her
voice, and she lifted a flushed face.
"It may be very wicked," she said deliberately, "but I hate Lady
Bassett."
Grange looked astonished, even mildly shocked. But Muriel returned to
the letter before he could reply.
It went on to express regret that the writer could not herself
return to England for the summer to assist her in the purchase of her
trousseau and to chaperon her back to India in the autumn; but her
sister, Mrs. Langdale, who lived in London, would she was sure, be
delighted to undertake the part of adviser in the first case, and in
the second she would doubtless be able to find among her many friends
who would be travelling East for the winter, one who would take charge
of her. No reference was made to Daisy till the end of the letter,
when the formal hope was expressed that Mrs. Musgrave's health had
benefited by the change.
"She dares to disapprove of Daisy for some reason," Muriel said,
closing the letter with the rapidity of exasperation.
Grange did not ask why. He was engrossed in brushing a speck of mud
from his sleeve, and she was not sure that he even heard her remark.
"You--I suppose you are not going to bother about a trousseau yet
then?" he asked rather awkwardly.
She shook her head with vehemence. "No, no, of course not. Why should
I hurry? Besides, I am in mourning."
"Exactly as you like," said Grange gently. "My leave will be up in
September, as you know, but I am not bound to stay in the Army. I will
send in my papers if you wish it."
Muriel looked at him in amazement. "Send in your papers! Why no,
Blake! I wouldn't have you do it for the world. I never dreamed of
such a thing."
He smiled good-humouredly. "Well, of course, I should be sorry to
give up polo, but there are plenty of other things I could take to.
Personally, I like a quiet existence."
Was there just a shade of scorn in Muriel's glance as it fell away
from him? It would have been impossible for any bystander to say with
certainty, but there was without doubt a touch of constraint in her
voice as she made reply.
"Yes. You are quite the most placid person I know. But please don't
think of leaving the Army for my sake. I am a soldier's daughter
remember. And--I like soldiers."
Her lip quivered as she turned to enter the house. Her heart at that
moment was mourning over a soldier's unknown grave. But Grange did not
know it, did not even see that she was moved.
His eyes were raised to an upper window at which a dim figure stood
looking out into the shadows. And he was thinking of other things.