“Simplify, simplify.”
THOREAU.
“She was certainly dreadfully upset,” said Mrs. Ellis. “That laughter
was terrible! I always thought there was something a little weak about
dear Mrs. Field (I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Lilian, though she
_is_ your aunt). Doctors so often marry hysterical women.”
“So many women are hysterical,” said Lilian Courtney quietly.
“Well,” said Lady Cheston (who had been really upset by last night’s
scene and did not like to be reminded of it), “here’s another drowning
accident in the paper this morning; everybody gets drowned this time of
the year, and when one thinks of the bathing-dresses some of us wear, I
don’t wonder! I always tell Reggie I’ll wait to go in bathin’ till I get
to the Dead Sea—where one can’t sink, you know.”
“But you can’t bathe there either, I believe,” put in Mrs. Ellis
doubtfully. Lady Cheston never made efforts to talk to other women; it
was a waste of time and ammunition; besides, she had expected a letter
from David, so she merely tossed a Bradshaw to the twins. Everybody felt
uncomfortable, and the twins looked up an afternoon train.
“I can’t bear being in a house where people die!” remarked an intense
young lady in green. She had published a volume of poems at her father’s
expense. “It makes one feel inexpressible things!”
“Well, don’t express them then!” said Lady Cheston shortly. She hated to
think about Death, more than she disliked a poor relation. One could say
“no” to a poor relation.
The intense girl had two very pink spots on her cheeks, and she
ostentatiously took up a beautifully bound little book called
“Heart-throbs.” It was written by a friend of hers whom she called the
“Master.” The margins were three inches wide and the poems were
remarkably short; but then, as Miss Ingleside would have told you, it
was their strength that shook your soul—one, in fact, needed the
margin. Mrs. Ellis, who could never restrain what was uppermost in her
mind, and whose mind only contained the uppermost, broke forth again.
“It is so specially sad about their being re-united again, and all that,
and everybody could see how he adored her!”
“Because he made her a speech?” suggested Lilian lazily, “or because
they had lived so long apart?”
“Oh! both!” said Mrs. Ellis a little doubtfully. “Though I never knew
Mrs. Field until recently; of course, it all seems very strange.”
“Rosamonde was my mother’s younger sister,” said Lilian clearly to the
now-listening room. “And she married a poor country doctor; no one knew
that he was going to get on, and in fact the Dormays had nothing more to
do with either of them. Rosamonde was never very strong, and soon after
her marriage she grew queer and hysterical, and had to live away
somewhere with a nurse. No one knew Mr. Field as a married man, when he
came to London, and he was certainly not the person to take the world
into his confidence, about his private affairs, besides, he was too
busy. When he got on, my mother met him again—one does meet people when
they get on, you know. He was always very uncommunicative, and she knew
nothing further about Rosamonde until Mr. Field had practically cured
her, and brought her home again. There isn’t any real mystery, you see.”
Lilian repeated the story as if it were a lesson she had had to learn by
heart. Everybody listened breathlessly, and believed as much of it as
went with, what they had already thought out, for themselves.
“How romantic!” murmured little Mrs. Ellis. Lady Cheston put down her
paper and snorted she did not believe a word of it, but before she had
time to question Lilian, Rosamonde herself came into the room looking
almost plain. The ladies all floated up to her with low voices and
detached kindlinesses. They made her feel that it was wonderful how
brave she was after all she had suffered, and when she was comfortably
settled with several unnecessary shawls and cushions—and Miss
Ingleside’s smelling-salts, without which (she explained) she never
moved—they all began to explain how they had to go away, and how
dreadful it was to leave her just at this time, but all of them hoped
she’d write. They should be waiting so anxiously for news of dear Mr.
Field! There was a splendid train at five something, when it would be
cool enough to travel, and could they send her anything down from town?
Miss Ingleside implored her to try a Faith Healer, a great friend of
hers who had effected the most marvellous cures by praying over tumours,
positively prevented loads of operations, that would inevitably have
proved fatal if they had been performed.
“Perhaps you have heard of her?” she concluded, “Lucia Lovington—she
has _such_ a soul.”
“And such a waist too,” murmured Lilian.
“Ah! you know her?” Miss Ingleside asked her.
“Not her soul,” said Lilian gently, “only her figure!”
Rosamonde hastened to exclaim that it was awfully sweet of her. “But you
see,” she exclaimed, “Arthur is a surgeon and doctors never like Faith
Healers, they are inclined to call them the New Disease; not that Arthur
is at all bitter about them, on the contrary, I have heard him say that
if they had a healthy faith and knew the first elements of logic they
would do very well. Still, I don’t quite think,” Rosamonde concluded,
“that he would like to see one at present.” Lilian got up and strolled
out into the garden. Later, Reggie told her that Daphne was coming to
Lady Middleton’s and that he was going to drive over for her that
afternoon and bring her back with him.
“Miss Linton is very tired,” he explained, “she has been up some nights
before they came here, and Daphne is quite competent to help her.”
“Oh! quite _competent_ I should think,” assented Lilian.
Reggie felt a little uncomfortable, he couldn’t quite tell why. He liked
Lilian “awfully” as he phrased it before her marriage, and he did still,
but somehow she was not so easy to talk to. He thought it was one of the
jolliest days he had ever known, and then reproached himself bitterly
for having forgotten the surgeon. In a few hours he would be with
Daphne.
As he drove off he was watched by two people, Katherine from the
surgeon’s window, and Lilian on the lawn. When the dog-cart disappeared,
Lilian looked up at Katherine, and something passed between them,
intimate, mutual and compassionate. They barely knew each other to speak
to, but Katherine knew the outlines of Lilian’s story, and they both
knew Daphne’s, and both of them were very much afraid for Reggie.