XXVI

He found her, however, very trying that night, the way she would keep on

turning round, and it reached such a pitch of discomfort to sleep with

her, or rather endeavour to sleep with her, for as the night went on she

paid less and less attention to his requests that she should keep still,

that at about two o'clock, staggering with sleepiness, he got up and

went into a spare room, trailing the quilt after him and carrying his

pillows, and finished the night in peace.

When he woke at seven he couldn't make out at first where he was, nor

why, on stretching out his arm, he found no wife to be gathered in. Then

he remembered, and he felt most injured that he should have been turned

out of his own bed. If Lucy imagined she was going to be allowed to

develop the same restlessness at night that was characteristic of her by

day, she was mistaken; and he got up to go and tell her so.

He found her asleep in a very untidy position, the clothes all dragged

over to her side of the bed and pulled up round her. He pulled them back

again, and she woke up, and he got into bed and said, 'Come here,'

stretching out his arm, and she didn't come.

Then he looked at her more closely, and she, looking at him with heavy

eyes, said something husky. It was evident she had a very tiresome cold.

'What an untruth you told me,' he exclaimed, 'about not having a cold in

the morning!'

She again said something husky. It was evident she had a very tiresome

sore throat.

'It's getting on for half-past seven,' said Wemyss. 'We've got to leave

the house at nine sharp, mind.'

Was it possible that she wouldn't leave the house at nine sharp? The

thought that she wouldn't was too exasperating to consider. He go up to

London alone? On this the first occasion of going up after his marriage?

He be alone in Lancaster Gate, just as if he hadn't a wife at all? What

was the good of a wife if she didn't go up to London with one? And all

this to come upon him because of her conduct on his birthday.

'Well,' he said, sitting up in bed and looking down at her, 'I hope

you're pleased with the result of your behaviour.'

But it was no use saying things to somebody who merely made husky

noises.

He got out of bed and jerked up the blinds. 'Such a beautiful day, too,'

he said indignantly.

When at a quarter to nine the station cab arrived, he went up to the

bedroom hoping that he would find her after all dressed and sensible and

ready to go, but there she was just as he had left her when he went to

have his breakfast, dozing and inert in the tumbled bed.

'You'd better follow me by the afternoon train,' he said, after staring

down at her in silence. 'I'll tell the cab. But in any case,' he said,

as she didn't answer, 'in _any_ case, Lucy, I expect you to-morrow.'

She opened her eyes and looked at him languidly.

'Do you hear?' he said.

She made a husky noise.

'Good-bye,' he said shortly, stooping and giving the top of her head a

brief, disgusted kiss. The way the consequences of folly fell always on

somebody else and punished him.... Wemyss could hardly give his _Times_

the proper attention in the train for thinking of it.

That day Miss Entwhistle, aware of the return from the honeymoon on the

Friday, and of the week-end to be spent at The Willows, and of the

coming up to Lancaster Gate early on the Monday morning for the inside

of the week, waited till twelve o'clock, so as to allow plenty of time

for Wemyss no longer to be in the house, and then telephoned. Lucy and

she were to lunch together. Lucy had written to say so, and Miss

Entwhistle wanted to know if she wouldn't soon be round. She longed

extraordinarily to fold that darling little child in her arms again. It

seemed an eternity since she saw her radiantly disappearing in the taxi;

and the letters she had hoped to get during the honeymoon hadn't been

letters at all, but picture postcards.

A man's voice answered her,--not Wemyss's. It was, she recognised, the

voice of the pale servant, who with his wife attended to the Lancaster

Gate house. They inhabited the basement, and emerged from it up into the

light only if they were obliged. Bells obliged them to emerge, and

Wemyss's bath and breakfast, and after his departure to his office the

making of his bed; but then the shades gathered round them again till

next morning, because for a long while now once he had left the house he

hadn't come back till after they were in bed. His re-marriage was going

to disturb them, they were afraid, and the pale wife had forebodings

about meals to be cooked; but at the worst the disturbance would only be

for the three inside days of the week, and anything could be borne when

one had from Friday to Monday to oneself; and as the morning went on,

and no one arrived from Strorley, they began to take heart, and had

almost quite taken it when the telephone bell rang.

It didn't do it very often, for Wemyss had his other addresses, at the

office, at the club, so that Twite, wanting in practice, was not very

good at dealing with it. Also the shrill bell vibrating through the

empty house, so insistent, so living, never failed to agitate both

Twites. It seemed to them uncanny; and Mrs. Twite, watching Twite being

drawn up by it out of his shadows, like some quiet fish sucked

irresistibly up to gasp on the surface, was each time thankful that she

hadn't been born a man.

She always went and listened at the bottom of the kitchen stairs, not

knowing what mightn't happen to Twite up there alone with that voice,

and on this occasion she heard the following:

'No, ma'am, not yet, ma'am.'

'I couldn't say, ma'am.'

'No, no news, ma'am.'

'Oh yes, ma'am, on Friday night.'

'Yes, ma'am, first thing Saturday.'

'Yes, it is, ma'am--very strange, ma'am.'

And then there was silence. He was writing, she knew, on the pad

provided by Wemyss for the purpose.

This was the most trying part of Twite's duties. Any message had to be

written down and left on the hall table, complete with the time of its

delivery, for Wemyss to see when he came in at night. Twite was not a

facile writer. Words confused him. He was never sure how they were

spelt. Also he found it very difficult to remember what had been said,

for there was a hurry and an urgency about a voice on the telephone that

excited him and prevented his giving the message his undivided

attention. Besides, when was a message not a message? Wemyss's orders

were to write down messages. Suppose they weren't messages, must he

still write? Was this, for instance, a message?

He thought he had best be on the safe side, and laboriously wrote it

down.

Miss Henwissel rang up sir to know if you was come and if so when

you was coming and what orders we ad and said it was very strange

12.15.

He had only just put this on the table and was about to descend to his

quiet shades when off the thing started again.

This time it was Wemyss.

'Back to-night late as usual,' he said.

'Yes sir,' said Twite. 'There's just been a----'

But he addressed emptiness.

Meanwhile Miss Entwhistle, after a period of reflection, was ringing up

Strorley 19. The voice of Chesterton, composed and efficient, replied;

and the effect of her replies was to make Miss Entwhistle countermand

lunch and pack a small bag and go to Paddington.

Trains to Strorley at that hour were infrequent and slow, and it wasn't

till nearly five that she drove down the oozy lane in the station cab

and, turning in at the white gate, arrived at The Willows. That sooner

or later she would have to arrive at The Willows now that she was

related to it by marriage was certain, and she had quite made up her

mind, during her four weeks' peace since the wedding, that she was going

to dismiss all foolish prejudices against the place from her mind and

arrive at it, when she did arrive, with a stout heart and an unclouded

countenance. After all, there was much in that _mot_ of her nephew's:

'Somebody has died everywhere.' Yet, as the cab heaved her nearer to the

place along the oozy lane, she did wish that it wasn't in just this

house that Lucy lay in bed. Also she had misgivings at being there

uninvited. In a case of serious illness naturally such misgivings

wouldn't exist; but the maid's voice on the telephone had only said Mrs.

Wemyss had a cold and was staying in bed, and Mr. Wemyss had gone up to

London by the usual train. It couldn't be much that was wrong, or he

wouldn't have gone. Hadn't she, she thought uneasily as she found

herself uninvited within Wemyss's gates, perhaps been a little

impulsive? Yet the idea of that child alone in the sinister house----

She peered out of the cab window. Not at all sinister, she said,

correcting herself severely; all most neat. Perfect order. Shrubs as

they should be. Strong railings. Nice cows.

The cab stopped. Chesterton came down the steps and opened its door.

Nice parlourmaid. Most normal.

'How is Mrs. Wemyss?' asked Miss Entwhistle.

'About the same I believe, ma'am,' said Chesterton; and inquired if she

should pay the man.

Miss Entwhistle paid the man, and then proceeded up the steps followed

by Chesterton carrying her bag. Fine steps. Handsome house.

'Does she know I'm coming?'

'I believe the housemaid did mention it, ma'am.'

Nice roomy hall. With a fire it might be quite warm. Fine windows. Good

staircase.

'Do you wish for tea, ma'am?'

'No thank you. I should like to go up at once, if I may.'

'If you please, ma'am.'

At the turn of the stairs, where the gong was, Miss Entwhistle stood

aside and let Chesterton precede her. 'Perhaps you had better go and

tell Mrs. Wemyss I am here,' she said.

'If you please, ma'am.'

Miss Entwhistle waited, gazing at the gong with the same benevolence she

had brought to bear on everything else. Fine gong. She also gazed at the

antlers on the wall, for the wall continued to bristle with antlers

right up to the top of the house. Magnificent collection.

'If you please, ma'am,' said Chesterton, reappearing, tiptoeing gingerly

to the head of the stairs.

Miss Entwhistle went up. Chesterton ushered her into the bedroom,

closing the door softly behind her.

Miss Entwhistle knew Lucy was small, but not how small till she saw her

in the treble bed. There really did appear to be nothing of her except a

little round head. 'Why, but you've shrunk!' was her first exclamation.

Lucy, who was tucked up to her chin by Lizzie, besides having a wet

bandage encased in flannel round her throat, could only move her eyes

and smile. She was on the side of the bed farthest from the door, and

Miss Entwhistle had to walk round it to reach her. She was still hoarse,

but not as voiceless as when Wemyss left in the morning, for Lizzie had

been diligently plying her with things like hot honey, and her face, as

her eyes followed Miss Entwhistle's approach, was one immense smile. It

really seemed too wonderful to be with Aunt Dot again; and there was a

peace about being ill, a relaxation from strain, that had made her quiet

day, alone in bed, seem sheer bliss. It was so plain that she couldn't

move, that she couldn't do anything, couldn't get up and go in trains,

that her conscience was at rest in regard to Everard; and she lay in the

blessed silence after he left, not minding how much her limbs ached

because of the delicious tranquillity of her mind. The window was open,

and in the garden the birds were busy. The wind had dropped. Except for

the birds there was no sound. Divine quiet. Divine peace. The luxury of

it after the week-end, after the birthday, after the honeymoon, was

extraordinary. Just to be in bed by oneself seemed an amazingly

felicitous condition.

'Lovely of you to come,' she said hoarsely, smiling broadly and looking

so unmistakably contented that Miss Entwhistle, as she bent over her and

kissed her hot forehead, thought, 'It's a success. He's making her

happy.'

'You darling little thing,' she said, smoothing back her hair. 'Fancy

seeing you again like this!'

'Yes,' said Lucy, heavy-eyed and smiling. 'Lovely,' she whispered, 'to

see you. Tea, Aunt Dot?'

It was evidently difficult for her to speak, and her forehead was

extremely hot.

'No, I don't want tea.'

'You'll stay?'

'Yes,' said Miss Entwhistle, sitting down by the pillow and continuing

to smooth back her hair. 'Of course I'll stay. How did you manage to

catch such a cold, I wonder?'

She was left to wonder, undisturbed by any explanations of Lucy's.

Indeed it was as much as Lucy could manage to bring out the most

necessary words. She lay contentedly with her eyes shut, having her hair

stroked back, and said as little as possible.

'Everard--' said Miss Entwhistle, stroking gently, 'is he coming back

to-night?'

'No,' whispered Lucy contentedly.

Aunt Dot stroked in silence.

'Has your temperature been taken?' she asked presently.

'No,' whispered Lucy contentedly.

'Oughtn't you--' after another pause 'to see a doctor?'

'No,' whispered Lucy contentedly. Delicious, simply delicious, to lie

like that having one's hair stroked back by Aunt Dot, the dear, the

kind, the comprehensible.

'So sweet of you to come,' she whispered again.

Well, thought Miss Entwhistle as she sat there softly stroking and

watching Lucy's face of complete content while she dozed off--even after

she was asleep the corners of her mouth still were tucked up in a

smile--it was plain that Everard was making the child happy. In that

case he certainly must be all that Lucy had assured her he was, and she,

Miss Entwhistle, would no doubt very quickly now get fond of him. Of

course she would. No doubt whatever. And what a comfort, what a relief,

to find the child happy. Backgrounds didn't matter where there was

happiness. Houses, indeed. What did it matter if they weren't the sort

of houses you would, left to yourself, choose so long as in them dwelt

happiness? What did it matter what their past had been so long as their

present was illuminated by contentment? And as for furniture, why, that

only became of interest, of importance, when life had nothing else in

it. Loveless lives, empty lives, filled themselves in their despair with

beautiful furniture. If you were really happy you had antlers.

In this spirit, while she stroked and Lucy slept, Miss Entwhistle's eye,

full of benevolence, wandered round the room. The objects in it, after

her own small bedroom in Eaton Terrace and its necessarily small

furniture, all seemed to her gigantic. Especially the bed. She had never

seen a bed like it before, though she had heard of such beds in history.

Didn't Og the King of Bashan have one? But what an excellent plan, for

then you could get away from each other. Most sensible. Most wholesome.

And a certain bleakness about the room would soon go when Lucy's little

things got more strewn about,--her books, and photographs, and pretty

dressing-table silver.

Miss Entwhistle's eye arrived at and dwelt on the dressing-table. On it

were two oval wooden-backed brushes without handles. Hairbrushes. Men's.

Also shaving things. And, hanging over one side of the looking-glass,

were three neckties.

She quickly recovered. Most friendly. Most companionable. But a feeling

of not being in Lucy's room at all took possession of her, and she

fidgeted a little. With no business to be there whatever, she was in a

strange man's bedroom. She averted her eyes from Wemyss's toilet

arrangements, they were the last things she wanted to see; and, in

averting them, they fell on the washstand with its two basins and on an

enormous red-brown indiarubber sponge. No such sponge was ever Lucy's.

The conclusion was forced upon her that Lucy and Everard washed side by

side.

From this, too, she presently recovered. After all, marriage was

marriage, and you did things in marriage that you would never dream of

doing single. She averted her eyes from the washstand. The last thing

she wanted to do was to become familiar with Wemyss's sponge.

Her eyes, growing more and more determined in their benevolence, gazed

out of the window. How the days were lengthening. And really a beautiful

look-out, with the late afternoon light reflected on the hills across

the river. Birds, too, twittering in the garden,--everything most

pleasant and complete. And such a nice big window. Lots of air and

light. It reached nearly to the floor. Two housemaids at least, and

strong ones, would be needed to open or shut it,--ah no, there were

cords. A thought struck her: This couldn't be the room, that couldn't be

the window, where----

She averted her eyes from the window, and fixed them on what seemed to

be the only satisfactory resting-place for them, the contented face on

the pillow. Dear little loved face. And the dear, pretty hair,--how

pretty young hair was, so soft and thick. No, of course it wasn't the

window; that tragic room was probably not used at all now. How in the

world had the child got such a cold. She could hear by her breathing

that her chest was stuffed up, but evidently it wasn't worrying her, or

she wouldn't in her sleep look so much pleased. Yes; that room was

either shut up now and never used, or--she couldn't help being struck by

yet another thought--it was a spare room. If so, Miss Entwhistle said to

herself, it would no doubt be her fate to sleep in it. Dear me, she

thought, taken aback.

But from this also she presently recovered; and remembering her

determination to eject all prejudices merely remarked to herself, 'Well,

well.' And, after a pause, was able to add benevolently, 'A house of

varied interest.'