“For I say this is death, and the sole death—
When a man’s loss comes to him from his gain,
Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance,
And lack of love from love made manifest.”
ROBERT BROWNING.
Lady Cheston, Reggie and the twins were numbered among Rosamonde’s
guests.
Vera had taken a house not far from them, and Rosamonde had invited her
to lunch. It was very hot, and in spite of deck-chairs in the shade,
iced drinks and muslin frocks, life was somewhat of a burden.
Rosamonde stopped the gardener from rolling the lawn; she said it made
her uncomfortable to see hot people, and that she didn’t see why they
should work in the summer.
“What about the cook?” Lady Cheston suggested. “It’s always disgustingly
hot in the kitchen.” Rosamonde frowned.
“One doesn’t see one’s cook,” she said, “so of course it doesn’t
matter.” Miss Smith was in the house, and Rosamonde had some iced
champagne. It was terrible not to be able to take as much as she wanted,
and she began to want it a great deal. She looked anxiously towards the
house, then she gathered up two bottles and said she must take them in
to poor little Mrs. Ellis, who had a shocking headache; did Lady Cheston
know that champagne was awfully good for headaches?
Lady Cheston had barely time to scream after her, that she knew it was
good for _givin’_ headaches, before she reached the house. She went
swiftly upstairs to her room and locked the door.
An hour later Miss Smith heard the sound of a fall in Rosamonde’s room;
she hurried upstairs to find the door locked, but she was a woman of
resources, and kept a duplicate key. When she went into the room, she
saw—what she expected to see, and put It to bed.
It was nearly time to meet Mr. Field’s train. No one but herself knew of
his arrival. So she locked the door after her, leaving a message with
the servants that Mrs. Field had a headache and must on no account be
disturbed. Then she met the train.
When Arthur saw her face on the platform, a queer smile came to his
lips. “Nurse,” he said, turning to Katherine, “I may need you another
week after all. Do you mind?”
“No, sir, I meant to stay if you would let me,” Katherine answered.
Miss Smith was shocked at the sight of him, and she hated Katherine, but
she made haste to call a cab. “I didn’t know you had been ill, sir,” she
explained, “or I would have brought a carriage. It is only a short walk
from here, perhaps the nurse——” she left the sentence unfinished.
“Yes, you may walk, nurse,” said Mr. Field. When they were alone in the
cab, Miss Smith told him her little story. He listened to it calmly.
“The duplicate key,” he remarked, when she had finished, “was a distinct
gain.”
“I fear you may think me careless, sir——” the nurse broke out, with
tears in her eyes.
“Then, I should have said so,” Arthur replied. Miss Smith was silent.
“By-the-bye,” Arthur said carelessly, “my wife’s friends do not usually
address me as ‘Sir.’” As they reached the drive, Arthur looked at his
watch. “She must be down to dinner; how many hours have we got?” he
asked.
“Four, sir—Mr. Field, I mean!”
“I will rest for two hours,” said Arthur, “then I will come to her.”
Miss Smith gazed at him.
“Do you—do you require another nurse, sir?” she asked pleadingly, “I
could look after you.” The surgeon shot a quick glance at her.
“My wife’s friends do not nurse me as a rule,” he said, with a smile, “I
think it would scarcely do. Besides, you have your hands full already.”
Miss Smith’s face clouded, she did not like what was in her hands. Then
she remembered that she did the housekeeping. At any rate she could give
Katherine an uncomfortable room.
Houses, like people, seem to have their hours of tension. In certain
rooms there is a secret emotion of disaster, which communicates itself
to the very furniture, till, on entering, one might accuse them of being
haunted by anticipation. The garden under the Surrey Hills seemed a
victim to a kindred feeling. The slow, drowsy hours between tea and
dinner had about them an under-current of suspense; even Lady Cheston
assured her companion on the lawn that it was an uncomfortable
afternoon. Her friend suggested thunder, and they watched a cloud-bank
rise up over the hills and prophesied a storm. At six o’clock the
surgeon went to his wife’s room, he found Miss Smith with her. Rosamonde
was awake but still stupid; she gazed at him in sulky discomfort until
Miss Smith left them alone.
“Now Rosamonde,” he said, “you are quite sensible enough to know that
you must come down to dinner to-night. But before then we must try to
make you sensible enough to do it. Have I got your attention?” There was
something in his eyes and voice, a repressed emotion that was so deeply
guarded, and had about it such an immense restraint, that even his wife
was partially aroused by it. She began to cry weakly; and he waited with
his eyes fixed on her.
Then she became too frightened even to cry. “Yes, I hear you,” she
muttered.
“I spoke to you of punishment,” he said, “but we will postpone that
until to-morrow. Rosamonde, look at me!” The words shot out with so
sudden a force, that she started up abruptly, only to sink back again in
her seat with her eyes drawn to his, in ineffectual combat. He rose
slowly, and painfully, and walked across to her. “Shut your eyes,” he
said. She shut them. With the tips of his fingers on her forehead, and
his head bent a little towards her face, he began to speak. “You will
get up in half-an-hour,” he said, “your natural self. You will be a
little tired, a little stupid, that is unavoidable, but you will be
sober, quite sober. Do you hear?”
“Quite sober,” said Rosamonde instantly.
“You will be able to walk straight, and to talk distinctly, quite
distinctly. Do you understand?” There was a moment’s pause. The word was
a difficult one, but it came at last.
“I shall be able to talk—quite distinctly,” she said with perceptible
effort.
“Say that again,” said the surgeon. She repeated it with less effort.
“Now walk across the room steadily,” he said, and stepped aside. She
stood up, and with her eyes still shut, walked erect, and gracefully to
the window. Then she stopped and reeled as if she would fall. He kept
his eyes on her without moving. “Now come back and sit down,” he said.
Rosamonde obeyed. He gave what might have been a sigh of relief, and sat
down near her.
Whom, after all, do men marry behind the pretty masks they are drawn to?
One leaps a gulf with an enigma, and never can recross, but in time one
reads the enigma. Arthur had read her very soon indeed, but it had made
no difference; bit by bit she had destroyed his life.
“You may open your eyes now,” he said at last. She looked at him
angrily.
“I don’t know what you are doing _here_?” she said, as if he had only
just entered the room.
“I appear to be sitting in amicable conversation with my wife,” said the
surgeon in sudden bitterness. He wondered if any man had ever hated a
woman quite as he hated her, and she was his wife. Rosamonde blushed.
“Oh!” she said, “I did want to be—what I used to be—like that
picture.” She stopped, afraid of his stern eyes.
“Well,” he said, with raised eyebrows, “and what has prevented it?”
“You don’t care enough,” said Rosamonde. The surgeon said nothing, for
he knew that it was true. He was stronger than his wife, but he was not
stronger than her peculiar and terrible curse, because the one thing
that would have made him so was lacking. He could, indeed, break her
will, but to cure her he would have had to win her heart. For Love is
the only saviour of the world. Without speaking he turned and left her.
He found Miss Smith outside the door. They exchanged a long, strange
glance; at that moment he and the nurse understood each other as they
had never done before, and ignored their understanding.
“Give her a cold bath,” he said, “and plenty of black coffee, and be in
the drawing-room by a quarter to eight. It is now seven—do you
understand?”
“Oh! yes, sir,” said Miss Smith—she followed the surgeon’s figure with
a smile—then she went into Rosamonde.