THE GOOD NEWS
I thought I knew what that "something" was. I thought that Gaby wished
to "tame" Sir Beverley, and make him so much her slave that he would
appoint Paul to understudy him with Murray. I chuckled as I "deduced"
this ambition, for poor Gaby was in blissful ignorance of a certain
conversation I'd had with Sir Beverley.
"She'll find him a hard nut to crack," I said to myself. Still, I
suffered some bad moments in the month that followed. The Jenningses
were as often at the Manor as we were, and Gaby came frequently alone,
seldom failing to see Sir Beverley. He did seem to admire her, and to
like Paul well enough to worry me.
"Will he stick to his point about his own doctor?" I wondered. But when
the time came to prove his strength of mind, he did stick.
When he had been at Ralston Old Manor four weeks and two days there was
a letter for me from him in my morning post at the Abbey. "I want you to
come along as soon as you can and break something to Mrs. Murray," he
wrote. "I think she would rather hear it from you than me."
I hardly waited to finish breakfast; but I was more excited than
frightened. If the news had been bad, I thought that Sir Beverley was
the man to have told it straight out. If it were good, he wouldn't mind
tantalizing me a little.
Sir Beverley was walking under the elms, his hands behind his back,
taking his early stroll, when my car drove up. I got out at once and
joined him.
"The man's going to get well--_well_, I tell you!" he joyously
announced. "No dreary semi-invalid for a devoted wife to take care of,
but a man in the prime of life, for a woman to adore. I'm sure of it."
"But how wonderful!" I cried, ecstatically squeezing his arm. "What a
triumph, after dozens of great doctors had given him up! Does he know
yet?"
Sir Beverley shook his head. "I'm going to tell him this morning. I
wanted to wait till Mrs. Murray had been told."
"Why on earth didn't you tell her yourself--tell them both together?" I
asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I only thought she'd rather get the good
news from an intimate friend like you. If it makes her break down a bit
she won't mind before you as she would before me, and it wouldn't be
wise to surprise her in front of the invalid. When Murray hears from my
lips, and Mrs. Murray from yours, there won't have to be any
preliminaries: they can just fall into each other's arms."
I argued no further. Indeed, there was no need. I knew as well as if
he'd had the embarrassment of putting it into words, how Sir Beverley
had feared that Rosemary might disappoint her husband, if the great news
were told in his presence. I thought also that if she were "strange" in
the way she had been strange before, he didn't want to see her being it!
All my lurking suspicions of Rosemary had died an ignominious death at
the moment when, radiant with the light of her own devotion, she had
tried to define the love she felt. I was sure that what Sir Beverley had
mistaken for "horror" was only an effort at self-control when--perhaps
rather suddenly--he had given his first hint of hope. But I didn't
insist to Sir Beverley. Rosemary would soon prove to him that I was
right.
He and I walked into the house together, and as he went to his patient,
I inquired for Mrs. Murray. Her boudoir opened off a corridor which ran
at right angles out of the panelled hall where many of the once famous,
now infamous, portraits hung. Murray had been moved down to a wing on
the ground floor after Sir Beverley came to the Manor, and this boudoir
of Rosemary's had a door opening into that wing. It was a charming,
low-ceilinged room, with a network of old beams, leaded windows with
wide sills where bowls of flowers stood, and delightful chintz chosen by
Rosemary herself. She came almost at once, through the door leading from
the invalid's wing; and as the sunlight touched her bright hair and
white dress I was thrilled by her ethereal beauty. Never had she been
more lovely, but she looked fragile as a crystal vase.
"Darling!" I exclaimed, snatching her in my arms. "You are a dream
to-day--but I want to see you more solid. You _will_ be soon--a strong
pink rose instead of a white lily--because there's the most gorgeous
news to-day. I met Sir Beverley and he gave me leave to tell you,
because I love you so much. Your dear man is saved. _You've_ helped to
save him, and----"
The words died on my lips. I had to put out all my strength with a
sudden effort to keep her from falling. She didn't faint, but her knees
collapsed. I held her for an instant, then supported her till she had
sunk into a chair which was luckily near. If she hadn't been in my arms
I think she would have fallen. Her head lay against the high back of the
grandfather chair, and her face was so white that she reminded me of a
snow-wreath flitting past one's window, ghostlike at twilight.
Her eyes were half closed. She didn't look at me, nor seem to be any
longer conscious of my presence; but I dropped on my knees beside her,
and covered her cold hands with my own.
"I oughtn't to have told you so abruptly," I said. "Sir Beverley trusted
me. I've betrayed his trust. But I thought, as you knew there was hope,
hearing that now it was certainty wouldn't excite you too much. Oh,
Rosemary, dear, think how glorious it will be! No more fears, no more
anxieties. Instead of saying to yourself, 'I have him only for a few
weeks,' you will know that you have years together to look forward to.
You will be like Jim and me. You can travel. You can----"
"Yes," Rosemary almost whispered. "Yes, it is glorious--for Ralston. I
am thankful. You are--good to sympathize so much, and I'm grateful.
I--I'd hardly dreamed before that he _could_ get well. All those
specialists, they were so sure; many of them very celebrated--as
celebrated as Sir Beverley--and he is only one against a dozen. That's
why it is--a surprise, you see."
She was making so violent an effort to control herself that I felt
guiltily conscious of my eyes upon her face. One would have thought
that, instead of giving her the key to happiness, I had handed her that
of a dungeon where she would be shut up for life.
"Would you rather I'd go?" I stammered. "Would you like to be alone?"
She nodded, moistening her lips. "Yes, thank you, Elizabeth," she
breathed. "I--yes, for a little while I'd like to be alone--with my
joy--to pray."
I jumped up like a marionette. "Of course," I said. "I understand."
But I didn't understand, as perhaps she guessed from my quivering voice.
"I wish I could make you--_really_ understand," she sighed. "I--I'm
different from other women. I can't take things as they do--as you
would. But--I told you once, before, _whatever happens I love him_."
"I'm sure you do," I answered, as I opened the door and slipped softly
out. Yet that wasn't so true as it had been a few minutes ago. I felt as
if I'd been through an earthquake which had shaken me up without
warning.
"I'm glad that it was I and not Sir Beverley who told her," I said to
myself. But I said it sadly. The sunshine was dimmed. I longed like a
child to escape from that house--escape quickly, and run to Jim's arms
as to a fortress.
* * * * *
Sir Beverley kept his promise, and sent for a man who had worked with
him in his experiments. Then he went back to Exeter, promising to return
if he were sent for, or in any case to look in once a fortnight.
There was no need, however, to send for him. Ralston Murray got on--as
the new man, Doctor Thomas, said--"like a house on fire."
At first there was little change to be noticed in his appearance. It was
only that the bad symptoms, the constant high temperature, the agonizing
pains in all the bones, and the deadly weakness, diminished and
presently ceased. Then, the next time Jim and I called, I cried out:
"Why, you are _fatter_!"
Murray laughed with a gay, almost boyish ring in his laugh.
"Transformation of the Living Skeleton into the Fat Man!" he cried.
"What a happy world this is, after all, and I'm the happiest man in it;
that is, I would be, if Rosemary weren't shrinking as rapidly as I
increase. What _are_ we to do with her? She says she's perfectly well.
But look at her little face."
We looked at it, and though she smiled as brightly as she could, the
smile was camouflage. Always pearly, her skin was dead white now. Even
the lips had lost their coral red, though she bit them to bring back the
blood, and a slight hollow had broken the exquisite oval of her cheeks.
Her eyes looked far too big; and even her hair had dulled, losing
something of its moonlight sheen.
"I'm perfectly all right!" she insisted. "It's only the reaction after
so much anxiety. _Anybody_ would feel it, in my place."
"Yes, of course," I soothed her. But I knew that there must be more than
that. She looked as if she never slept. My heart yearned over her, yet I
despaired of doing any good. She would not confide in me. All my
confidence in myself as a "Brightener" was gone.