"Time and the weather run through the roughest day." It may be doubted
if Rose Otway knew that consoling old proverb, but with her time, even
in the shape of a very few days, and perhaps, too, the weather, which
was remarkably fine and mild for the time of year, soon wrought a
wonderful change.
And as she sat by Jervis Blake's bedside, on a bright, sunny day in late
November, it seemed to her as if she had nothing left to wish for. The
two nurses who attended on him so kindly and so skilfully told her that
he was going on well--far better, in fact, than they could have
expected. And though Sir Jacques Robey did not say much, she had no
reason to suppose him other than satisfied. True, Jervis's face looked
strained and thin, and there was a cradle over his right foot, showing
where the worst injury had been. But the wound in his shoulder was
healing nicely, and once or twice he had spoken of when he would be able
to go back; but now he had left off doing that, for he saw that it
troubled her.
Yesterday something very pleasant had happened, and something which, to
Jervis Blake himself, was quite unexpected. He had been Mentioned in
Despatches, in connection with a little affair, as he described it,
which had happened weeks ago, on the Aisne! One of the other two men
concerned in it had received the Victoria Cross, and Rose was secretly
rather hurt, as was also Lady Blake, that Jervis had not been equally
honoured. But that thought did not occur to either his father or
himself.
Just now Rose was enjoying half an hour of pleasant solitude with her
lover, after what had been a trying morning for him. Sir Jacques Robey
had asked down an old friend of his own, a surgeon too, to see Jervis,
and they had spent quite a long time pulling the injured foot about.
Sir John Blake had also come down to spend the day at Witanbury. He had
been able to get away for a few hours from his work at the War Office to
tell his boy how very, very pleased he was at that mention in Sir John
French's Despatches. Indeed, all the morning telegraph boys had been
bringing to "Robey's" the congratulations of friends and even
acquaintances.
Jervis was very tired now--tired because the two surgeons, skilful and
careful though they were, had not been able to help hurting him quite a
good bit. It was fortunate that Rose Otway, dearly as she loved him,
knew little or nothing of pain. She had been sent away during that hour,
right out of the house, to take a walk with Mr. Robey. She had been told
quite plainly by Sir Jacques that they would rather she were not there
while the examination was taking place. It was important that the house
should be kept as far as possible absolutely quiet.
Jervis did not talk very much, but there was no need for him to do so.
He and Rose would have plenty of time to say everything they wanted to
one another, for Sir Jacques had told her, only yesterday night, that a
very long time must go by before Jervis would be fit to go back. "Any
injury to the foot," he had said casually, "is bound to be a long and a
ticklish business." The words had given her a rush of joy of which she
felt ashamed.
There came a knock at the door, and then the younger of Jervis's nurses
came quietly into the room. "They're asking for you downstairs, Miss
Otway," she said quietly. "And I think that perhaps Mr. Blake might now
get a little sleep. He's had a rather tiring, exciting morning, you
know. Perhaps you could come up and have tea with him about five
o'clock? He's sure to be awake by then."
And then the young nurse did a rather odd thing. Instead of going on
into the room and up to the bedside, she went out of the door for a
moment, and Rose, during that moment, bent down and laid her soft cheek
against Jervis's face. "Good-bye, my darling Jervis. I shan't be away
long." And then she straightened herself, and went out of the room.
Of course she was happy--happy, and with a heart at rest as it had not
been for months and months. But still it would be a great comfort when
Jervis was up. She hated to see him lying there, helpless, given over to
ministrations other than her own.
As she went through the door, the nurse stopped her and said, "Would you
go into Mr. Robey's study, Miss Otway? I think Sir John Blake wants to
see you before he goes back to town. Mr. Jenkinson has already gone; he
had to be there for a consultation at six."
Rose looked at her, a little surprised. It was as if the kind little
nurse was speaking for the sake of speaking.
She went down the quiet house, past the door of the large ward where
the four other wounded officers now lay, all going on, she was glad to
know, very well, and all having had a visit from Mr. Jenkinson, the
London specialist.
She hurried on, smiling a little as she did so. She was no longer afraid
of Sir John Blake. In fact she was becoming very fond of him, though it
hurt her always to hear how sharply and irritably he spoke to his
gentle, yielding wife. Of course Lady Blake was very unreasonable
sometimes--but she was so helpless, so clinging, and so fond of Jervis.
And then, as she turned a corner--for "Robey's" consisted of three
houses, through each of which an intercommunication had been made--there
fell on Rose Otway's ear a very dreadful sound, that of some one crying
in wild, unbridled grief. The sound came from Mrs. Robey's little
sitting-room, and suddenly Rose heard her own mother's voice raised in
expostulation. She was evidently trying to comfort and calm the poor
stranger--doubtless the mother or wife of one of the four officers
upstairs. Two days ago one of these visitors had had something very like
a fit of hysterics after seeing her wounded husband. Rose shrank from
the memory. But this was worse--far worse. She hurried on into Mr.
Robey's study.
The study, which was a very agreeable room, overlooked the Close. It was
panelled with dark old oak, and lined on one side with books, and
opposite the centre window hung Mr. Robey's greatest treasure, a
watercolour by Turner of Witanbury Cathedral, painted from the meadows
behind the town.
To-day Mr. Robey himself was not there, but his brother and Sir John
Blake were both waiting for her. Eagerly she walked forward into the
room, and as she did so she made a delightful picture--or so those two
men, so very different the one from the other, thought--of youth, of
happiness, and yes, of young love satisfied.
Sir Jacques took a step forward. The General did not move at all. He was
standing with his back to the further window, his face in shadow.
"Now, Miss Rose, I want you to listen very carefully to me for a few
minutes."
She looked at him gravely. "Yes?" she said questioningly.
"I have asked you to come," went on the great surgeon, "because I want
to impress upon your mind the fact that how you behave at this juncture
of his life may make a very great, I might almost say all the
difference, to your future husband, to Mr. Jervis Blake."
Rose's senses started up, like sentinels, to attention.
"You will have need of all your courage, and also of all your good
sense, to help him along a very rough bit of road," he went on
feelingly.
Rose felt a thrill of sudden, unreasonable terror. "What is it?" she
exclaimed. "What is going to happen to him? Is he going to die? I don't
mind what it is, if only you will tell me!" She instinctively moved over
to Sir John Blake's side, and he, as instinctively, put his arm round
her shoulder.
"Mr. Jenkinson agrees with me," said Sir Jacques, slowly and
deliberately, "that his foot, the foot that was crushed, will have to
come off. There is no danger--no reasonable danger, that is--of the
operation costing him his life." He waited a moment, and as she said
nothing, he went on: "But though there is no danger of his losing his
life, there is a very great danger, Miss Otway, of his losing what to
such a man as Jervis Blake counts, I think, for more than life--his
courage. By that of course I do not mean physical bravery, but that
courage, or strength of mind, which enables many men far more afflicted
than he will ever be, to retain their normal outlook on life." Speaking
more to himself, he added, "I have formed a very good opinion of this
young man, and personally I think he will accept this great misfortune
with resignation and fortitude. But one can never tell, and it is always
best to prepare for the worst."
And then, for the first time, Rose spoke. "I understand what you mean,"
she said quietly. "And I thank you very much, Sir Jacques, for having
spoken to me as you have done."
"And now," he said, "one word more. Sir John Blake does not know what I
am going to say, and perhaps my suggestion will not meet with his
approval. It had been settled during the last few days, had it not, that
you and Jervis were to be married before he went back to the Front?
Well, I suggest that you be married now, before the operation takes
place. I am of course thinking of the matter solely from his point of
view--and from my point of view as his surgeon."
Her heartfelt "Thank you" had hardly reached his ear before Sir John
Blake spoke with a kind of harsh directness.
"I don't think anything of the sort can be thought of now. In fact I
would not give my consent to an immediate marriage. I feel certain that
my son, too, would refuse to take advantage of his position to suggest
it."
"I think," said Sir Jacques quietly, "that the suggestion in any case
would have to come from Miss Rose."
And then, for the first time, Rose lost control of herself. She became
agitated, tearful--in her eagerness she put her hand on Sir John's
breast, and looking piteously up into his face, "Of course I want to
marry him at once!" she said brokenly. "Every time I have had to leave
him in the last few days I have felt miserable. You see, I _feel_
married to him already, and if you feel married, it's so very strange
not to _be_ married."
She began to laugh helplessly, and the more, shocked at what she was
doing, she tried to stop, the more she laughed.
Sir Jacques came quickly forward. "Come, come!" he said sharply, and
taking her by the arm he shook her violently. "This won't do at all----"
he gave a warning look at the other man. "Of course Miss Rose will do
exactly what she wishes to do! She's quite right in saying that she's as
good as married to him already, Sir John. And it's our business--yours,
hers, and mine--to think of Jervis, and of Jervis only just now. But she
won't be able to do that if she allows herself to be upset!"
"I'm so sorry--please forgive me!" Rose, to her own measureless relief,
had stopped laughing, but she felt oddly faint and queer. Sir Jacques
poured out a very small wineglassful of brandy, and made her drink it.
How odd to have a bottle of brandy here, in Mr. Robey's study! Mr. Robey
was a teetotaller.
"Would you like me to go up to Jervis now?" asked Sir John slowly.
Sir Jacques looked into the speaker's face. It was generally a clear,
healthy tan colour; now it had gone quite grey. "No," he said. "Not now.
If you will forgive me for making a suggestion, I should advise that you
and Miss Rose take Lady Blake out somewhere for an hour's walk. There's
nothing like open air and a high road for calming the nerves."
"I would rather not see my wife just now," muttered Sir John frowning.
But Sir Jacques answered sternly, "I'm afraid I must ask you to do so;
and once you've got her out of doors for an hour, I'll give her a
sleeping draught. She'll be all right to-morrow morning. I don't want
any tears round my patient."
It was Rose Otway who led Sir John Blake by the hand down the passage.
The dreadful sounds coming from Mrs. Robey's sitting-room had died down
a little, but they still pierced one listener's heart.
"Do be kind to her," whispered the girl. "Think what she must be going
through. She was so happy about him this morning----"
"Yes, yes! You're quite right," he said hastily. "I've been a brute--I
know that. I promise you to do my best. And Rose?"
"Yes," she said.
"What that man said is right--quite right. What we've got to do now is
to start the boy on the right way--nothing else matters."
She nodded.
"You and I can do it."
"Yes, I know we can--and will," said Rose; and then she opened the door
of Mrs. Robey's sitting-room.
At the sight of her husband, Lady Blake's sobs died down in long,
convulsive sighs.
"Come, my dear," he said, in rather cold, measured tones. "This will not
do. You must try for our boy's sake to pull yourself together. After
all, it might have been much worse. He might have been killed."
"I would much rather he had been killed," she exclaimed vehemently. "Oh,
John, you don't know, you don't understand, what this will mean to him!"
"Don't I?" he asked. He set his teeth. And then, "You're acting very
wrongly!" he said sternly. "We've got to face this thing out. Remember
what Sir Jacques said to you." He waited a moment, then, in a gentler,
kinder tone, "Rose and I are going out for a walk, and we want you to
come too."
"Oh, I don't think I could do that." She spoke uncertainly, and yet even
he could see that she was startled, surprised, and yes, pleased.
"Oh, yes, you can!" Rose came forward with the poor lady's hat and black
lace cloak. Very gently, but with the husband's strong arm gripping the
wife's rather tightly, they between them led her out of the front door
into the Close.
"I think," said Sir John mildly, "that you had better run back and get
your hat, Rose."
She left them, and Sir John Blake, letting go of his wife's arm looked
down into her poor blurred face for a moment. "That girl," he said
hoarsely, "sets us both an example, Janey."
"That's true," she whispered, "But John?"
"Yes."
"Don't you sometimes feel dreadfully _jealous_ of her?"
"I? God bless my soul, _no_!" But a very sweet smile, a smile she had
not seen shed on her for many, many years, lit up his face. "We'll have
to think more of one another, and less of the boy--eh, my dear?"
Lady Blake was too surprised to speak--and so, for once doing the wise
thing, she remained silent.
Rose, hurrying out a moment later, saw that the open air had already
done them both good.