Jeannie tapped at the bed-room door, and Phœbe’s voice answered her
quite cheerfully.
“I was just coming down, Miss Avesham,” she said; “I should have come
down before, but I just waited to collect myself. Now, please tell me
truly. Dr. Maitland, I thought, looked very grave. Is that not so?”
Jeannie could hardly believe that this brisk, cheerful woman was the
same who had sat so limply and undecidedly in the drawing-room half an
hour ago. What had caused this change of front she could not guess, for,
evidently, Dr. Maitland had not been reassuring. But her own part was
made easier for her.
“Yes, he was very grave,” said Jeannie. “Dear Miss Clifford, it is idle
for me to say how sorry I am. But it is very grave, indeed.”
Phœbe stood at the window a moment with her back to Jeannie, and Jeannie
could see that her hand, which played with the blind-cord, trembled, and
at that her courage again failed her, and a sickening helplessness took
its place. But almost immediately Phœbe turned round again, and her
poor, gray face was quite composed, and her hand firm.
“Please tell me what it is, Miss Avesham,” she said.
Jeannie rose, took both her hands in hers, and looked at her with
infinite compassion.
“It is cancer,” she said.
Phoebe drew a long sigh.
“You will think it very singular of me, Miss Avesham,” she said, “but it
is almost a relief to hear that. The fear of it, I think, was worse than
the knowledge. Can anything be done?”
“An operation could be attempted,” said Jeannie, “but it would be very
dangerous, and not hopeful.”
“I am glad of that,” said Miss Phœbe, “for you must know, Miss Avesham,
that I am a terrible coward, and if there is one thing I dread it is
being pulled about by a professional man. I have three teeth now that
ought to come out. Would you think it very cowardly of me if I preferred
not to have the operation?”
“Oh, thank God you bear it so well!” cried Jeannie, suddenly. “No, I
should not think it cowardly. I think you are right. You a coward!” she
said; “you are the bravest woman I ever saw.”
Miss Clifford’s face brightened with pleasure.
“I prayed God to let me not be very foolish about it,” she said. “Tell
me one more thing. Would there have been a chance if I had gone to a
doctor sooner?”
“There would,” said Jeannie, simply.
“Then will you promise me something?” asked Phœbe.
“Anything.”
“Don’t let poor Clara know that,” said Phœbe. “And oh, Miss Avesham,
supposing she puts it to you rather directly, do you think you could go
so far as to--well, to tell her just a little fib about it? It would
save Clara a great deal of distress, for she would reproach herself for
not having insisted on my seeing a doctor.”
“I will lie to any extent,” said Jeannie; “and I promise you that Dr.
Maitland shall, too.”
Phœbe shrank back.
“Oh, you put it so strongly, Miss Avesham,” she said. “I would not ask
you to tell a lie, but if you could just be a little diplomatic, if you
could lead Clara off the scent, so to speak.”
“She shall never know,” said Jeannie.
“Thank you so much. And now I will put on my hat and go home. I wonder,
Miss Avesham, would it be too much to ask you to come and see us
to-morrow morning? I am afraid Clara will be very much upset, and you
can deal with her as no one else can. I shall send a line to Dr.
Maitland, asking him to come and tell me what I must do.”
And she put on her hat, taking great care to have it straight, and
adjusted her silk scarf round her neck.
“It is a little chilly this afternoon,” she said, “and to catch a cold
at this time of year is so tiresome. It is curious how much harder it
is to throw off a cold in the summer.”
To Jeannie there was something infinitely pathetic about this. The poor
lady had a mortal disease, yet the possibility of getting a cold in the
head appeared, even at this first stunning moment, to rank at far
greater importance in her mind. In a few weeks, now even, she was beyond
all mortal aid, yet the adjustment of the silk scarf to shield her
throat from possible chills was not less advisable.
The scarf adjusted, Miss Clifford paused again to pull down her veil to
its accustomed point. At first it was too low, and then too high; this
mattered no less than before. Little pleasures, little pains, seem to
have a deeper and more intimate hold over certain natures than the
greater calls: a man going out to be hung has been known to complain
that his boot hurt him.
Jeannie called at Villa Montrose next morning, and, standing on the
steps while the door was being answered, she heard the subdued tremolo
of a mandolin. She was shown at once into the drawing-room, and there
in Phœbe’s corner was sitting Phœbe, with one leg thrown over the other,
in the approved attitude, and in front of her, on a brass music-stand,
was Funiculi, Funicula. She got up with alacrity when Jeannie entered.
“A lovely morning, is it not?” she said. “Dr. Maitland was so kind as to
come early, and he told me I might get up and spend a quiet morning,
going out in the afternoon, if I felt inclined. He recommended a drive,
which I think I shall enjoy.”
Evidently for Phœbe the day of little things was not over. Uncertainty
had worried her, the relief of certainty had let her tiny occupations
resume their wonted importance. It seemed to Jeannie that condolence or
congratulations on her bravery would be alike misplaced. It is good to
weep with those who weep, but weeping friends are bad company if one
does not show any inclination to weep one’s self, and certainly Phœbe
showed none. And to continue congratulating any one on their fortitude
is gratuitous. Courage, above all the virtues, brings its own reward,
for it is warming to the heart.
“But Clara offered to take off my hands all the work of the household,”
continued Phœbe, “which was very thoughtful of her, for she had noticed,
she said, that it seemed to have fatigued me these last few weeks. And
so, Miss Avesham, I have been spending a holiday morning with my music.
I have hardly any pain this morning.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said Jeannie, “and I see you have Funiculi.
I know it, so I will accompany you.”
Clara upstairs, employed in looking out the towels in the bed-room,
heard the light-hearted, rollicking tune vibrate through the house, and
guessed Jeannie had come. Clara had a marked bedside manner, and her
custom when any one was ill was to batter them with innocent questions
as to whether they would have the door shut or the window opened, and to
look at them with anxious, deprecating eyes, and to walk on a creaking
tip-toe. Phœbe’s faint tinkling had been inaudible upstairs, and to play
that song now seemed scarcely proper. She felt as she would have felt
if some one in the house was dead and the blinds had not been drawn
down.
She was nearly at an end of her tour of inspection, and when, a few
minutes later, she entered the drawing-room, the third verse of the song
was not yet ended. She closed the door with elaborate precaution, and
walking on tip-toe to Phœbe’s side, gazed into her face with a sad
smile. But Phœbe only frowned; Jeannie was taking the song at a pace she
was not used to, and it was as much as she could do to keep up.
“Turn over quick, Clara,” she said. “Now!” and Phœbe’s soul was in the
thrumming of the mandolin.
The verse came to an end, and Jeannie turned round.
“That’s more the pace,” she said. “I remember I was with my father and
mother in Naples when it came out, and it was the first sound you heard
in the morning and the last you heard at night. I have a book of those
Neapolitan airs; I’ll send them round to you if you like.”
Jeannie’s manner was anything but the ideal mortal-disease attitude
which Clara had expected. She had expected to find her sitting by
Phœbe’s side, with one hand in hers, talking about the next world and
the lessons to be learned from pain. Perhaps she might with advantage
have been found playing a hymn on the soft pedal, but instead of that
she was thumping Neapolitan songs, and Phœbe seemed to be enjoying it.
Was it possible that Dr. Maitland was wrong, and had told Jeannie so? In
that case surely Jeannie would have let her know.
“There is another one,” Jeannie went on, running her hands gently over
the keys. “Yes, that is right. It’s a duet, Stella d’Amore. The young
man is walking by the sea, and sees a girl. He does not speak to her,
but he sings to himself, as he passes, ‘There is a star by the sea,’ and
when he has finished his verse, she sings, like him, ‘There is a star by
the sea, but who am I that the star should hear me?’ And then they both
sing, ‘Star of love by the sea.’”
Clara flushed.
“How romantic!” she said. “And did they marry?”
“It doesn’t say,” said Jeannie. “You must write an extra verse, Miss
Clara, saying that they did.”
Jeannie got up from the piano and began putting on her gloves.
“I must go,” she said; “but whenever you feel up to it, Miss Clifford,
send me a note, and we’ll have another go at the mandolin. I won’t
forget to let you have the book. Now mind you do all that Dr. Maitland
tells you. Good-bye.”
Clara came to show Jeannie out, and stopped her in the hall.
“Oh, Miss Avesham,” she said, “is Phœbe better? Is it not what Dr.
Maitland thought?”
Jeannie shook her head.
“Better?” she said. “Has he not told you?”
Clara’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, he told me,” she said; “but you were so cheerful, I thought
perhaps it was not as bad as he said.”
“No; you must not comfort yourself with that,” said Jeannie. “But
comfort her, if I may suggest it, in little ways. You see, she still
cares for little things. She has not lost interest in life at all, it
seems to me. Do not do or say anything that will remind her of what she
is suffering from. My dear Miss Clara, it is not that I do not realize
it that I recommend you this, but just because I do. All we can do is to
help her in little ways. It is just that we can do.”
Poor Miss Clara looked bewildered and puzzled.
“But these things matter so little now,” she said. “I cannot understand
Phœbe caring for her songs and her mandolin now. To be sure, she was
never very fond of going to church, and she always says there are a
great many black sheep who are clergymen. But now, Miss Avesham. Oh, to
think of her playing _Funiculi_!”
Miss Clara delivered herself of this incoherent dissatisfaction with
shaking head and trembling lips. It was all she could do to keep herself
from bursting out crying, and the effort tied her face into hard knots.
Phœbe had evidently taken up her mandolin again, for its little metallic
notes came from the drawing-room, playing Funiculi, and in a few bars
her quavering voice joined it. They had been speaking in low tones for
fear Phœbe should hear them, but when the song began again Jeannie spoke
louder.
“It seems to me such a great thing that she can still take an interest
and a pleasure in things,” said Jeannie. “I would encourage her all I
could to continue to do that.”
“But it seems so strange,” said Clara. “I know my poor mother saw a
clergyman every day for six weeks before she died. And when I suggested
this morning to Phœbe that I should ask Mr. Crawshaw to call she got
quite angry, and said, ‘What for?’ So as any agitation, Dr. Maitland
told me, is bad for her, I didn’t urge it. But my conscience has pricked
me ever since.”
Jeannie smiled.
“Put it in a pin-cushion, then,” she said. “Oh, how little I should want
to see a clergyman if I was going to die soon. Fancy wanting a clergyman
when you were dying,” she said, half to herself.
For a moment Miss Clara looked shocked, but any opinion expressed by her
idol demanded unusual thought before it was condemned. And, after a
little reflection:
“I think I see what you mean,” she said. “But it seems so odd.”
“Well, I must go,” said Jeannie; “and I think it would be wise of you to
let your sister do as she likes and to encourage her in anything she may
wish.”
Clara sighed.
“I am sure you must be right,” she said. “Dear Miss Avesham, there is
one thing more I wanted to ask you. You do not think, do you, that if
Phœbe had seen a doctor sooner it would have been more hopeful?”
“I am sure it would have made no difference,” said Jeannie, with
assurance. Then, seeing that doubt still lingered on Miss Clara’s face:
“I happened to ask Dr. Maitland that myself,” she added, which happened
to be quite true.
Clara looked inexpressibly relieved.
“You can’t think how I worried about it since Phœbe told me last night,”
she said. “I was afraid it might have been, however indirectly, my
fault.”
“Well, anyhow, you needn’t worry about that any more,” said Jeannie.
She went down the steps and turned homeward, a little shocked at herself
at the ease with which what Miss Phœbe had called “the little fib” had
been spoken. No one had practised the difficult art of lying less than
she, but it seemed to come quite naturally. And not for a moment did she
repent it. “If it was wrong,” she said to herself, “God will
understand.”
Clara stayed for a moment looking after Jeannie and composing herself.
Then she nailed a smile to her face and went back into the drawing-room.
Phœbe was still sitting in her chair strumming to herself on the
mandolin, but she stopped as Clara entered.
“I wonder if you could play that accompaniment,” she said; “I want to
try the song that comes next, Amore Mysterio.”
“I will try,” said Clara, and seated herself at the piano.
But she did not make much of a success out of it, for, in addition to
the fact that she found four sharps even at the best of times a
scarcely negotiable quantity, her fingers were trembling, and she could
scarcely see the keys. Then quite suddenly, in the middle of the second
part, she put her elbows on the piano and, burying her face in her
hands, burst out crying.
Phœbe, whose mind had been entirely concentrated on her own difficulties
with the mandolin, looked up suddenly at this cessation of the
accompaniment. Then she got up and went to her sister.
“Clara,” she said, “don’t cry so. My dear, it is very hard on you, and
you will be lonely, I think. But don’t make it worse for yourself, and
don’t make it worse for me.”
Poor Clara turned her tear-stained face to her sister.
“Phœbe, Phœbe, I can’t bear it!” she sobbed. “Oh, to think of what is
coming! Indeed, I am not crying for myself; but if only it was me, and
not you. Oh, Phœbe, I prayed and I prayed last night that I might have
this, and not you, and I hoped God would hear me. But I am just as well
as ever this morning. Perhaps if you had seen a doctor sooner. No, that
can’t be, because Miss Jeannie told me that it would have made no
difference.”
Phœbe blessed Jeannie in her heart.
“So you know that nothing has been left undone that could have been
done,” she said. “And now, Clara, please go and wash your face, and
please try, love, to behave just as usual, just as you have behaved, my
own dear sister, all these years. Oh, it is hard, I know. Perhaps,
Clara, if we kneel down together and say Our Father we shall feel
better, and then let us both make up our minds to make the best of
things and to go on living quite simply and ordinarily. That has seemed
right to us before, and I do not see that it is not right still. There
is no use in my going to be a missionary just because of this.”
They said the prayer together, and when it was done Phœbe kissed her
sister.
“Go upstairs if you like, dear,” she said, “and have a good cry. Then
when you come down again, if you will be so kind, we will just try this
Amore Mysterio again. I should like to surprise Miss Avesham by playing
it when she comes. I told her I did not know it this morning.”
Clara stood irresolute a moment. Then she blew her nose, and wiped up
her face generally.
“We will try it at once,” she said, in rather a quavering voice. “I hope
I shall play it better this time, Phœbe.”
For the most part it is the natures of very strong vitality to whom
death seems so unfaceable, and all their courage is needed to meet it.
But Phœbe had never been a lusty swimmer in the waves and foam of life;
she had but dabbled with her feet in it, and perhaps it was this
unacquaintance with the thrill and throb of mere living which helped her
to face what was before her with such simple unconcern. She had passed
her life in safe and shallow waters, the buffeting and bracing risks of
the world had not been her affair; and to her straightforward, if
shallow and short-sighted, nature death did not seem an unnatural thing.
Her grasp of life had never been firm, and the relaxation and loss of it
came with no shock. Her fingers were but holding it lightly, they would
come away without a struggle.
But Clara’s capacity for suffering was greater. In her gentle way she
raged over that hideous end to existence, and it required all her
fortitude to meet that which Phœbe met without effort. She had never
rebelled or struggled against the ordinary necessities of life, and of
these death was one.
But from that day her case grew very rapidly worse. That cruel and
inexorable malady, whose only mercy is the swiftness with which it does
its work, was to her very merciful, and her suffering was comparatively
little. A fortnight after this she came downstairs for the last time,
and, sitting once more in her corner, talked very cheerfully to Clara
about Jeannie’s approaching marriage.
“It will take place in the Cathedral, so Miss Avesham told me
yesterday,” she said, “and Lord Avesham will give her away. I wish--”
and she paused.
“Yes, dear,” said Clara.
“I wish I could have been there,” said Phœbe, “but I am afraid Dr.
Maitland was not so cheerful this morning. Clara, love, I hope you will
go.”
Clara could not speak.
“I shall want to hear all about it, you know,” said Phœbe; “and your
new dress and bonnet and all are ready. I shall want to hear how they
all looked, and whether Miss Jeannie spoke up, and who was there.”
Again Phœbe paused.
“And if--if, Clara--I am not here for you to tell, please go very
quietly just the same. You can easily slip in among the crowd and see
it. In fact, I want you to promise me to go in any case. You will be
sorry to have missed it. And now--don’t let us talk any more about that.
You were going to read Lord Fauntleroy to me. I think Mr. Arthur must
have been so like him when he was little. We had just got to where he
went out to ride.”
And Miss Clara wiped her eyes furtively, and found her place.