Chapter V: Recovery

IF we had been wise, we should have waited till my nurse could give us rooms under her roof. But we would not wait. And so it came to pass that we were married, one grey autumn morning, in St. George's Church, and took up our quarters among strangers. Lady Waterville was seriously angry. She even went so far as to say some cutting things that I could not easily forget. I parted with her coldly, and left the old house with a firm determination not to enter it again unless I was sent for.

How sorrow came upon us in those dreary lodgings I have already told. Six months of mingled bliss and anxiety, and then my husband was stricken down. I sought for no help or sympathy from Lady Waterville in my trouble. Quite alone I watched by Ronald's sick-bed; and nurse was the only friend who visited us in our time of calamity.

Yet not the only friend. There was one face that came like sunshine into the sickroom, one voice that never failed to bid me be of good cheer. The face was shrewd, bright, and kindly, with eyes that were well used to studying poor humanity, and the voice was deep-toned and pleasant to hear. Dr. Warstone was, in the truest sense of the word, a friend. He was not a courtly, flattering doctor by any means, sweetening his doses with little compliments. But he looked straight into your heart, and read all your doubts and fears, all your unspoken longings and womanly anguish; and he sympathised with every weakness as only a large-hearted man can.

The clocks were striking eight, and I was just persuading Ronald not to sit up any longer, when the doctor paid us his first visit in Chapel Place.

"This boy is fast getting well," he said, sitting by the patient's sofa, and criticising him quietly. "He seems to have got into good quarters; your new room looks like a home."

My nurse had contrived to bring something of the country even into her London house. There were bulrushes on the walls that had grown by our old village stream, and the bunches of dried grass on the chimney-piece had been gathered in the fields behind my grandfather's cottage. There were no cheap modern ornaments to be seen; but we had put some quaint blue china on the shelf, and some more was visible through the glazed door of the corner cupboard. Up among the bulrushes hung a painted tambourine, decked with bows of bright satin ribbon; and between the windows was an oval mirror which had often reflected my grandmother's charms. Our decorations were simple enough; but they brightened the dim little room, and gave it that home-like look which the doctor had noticed at once.

"I wish I could take Ronald out of town," I said.

"Wait a bit," Doctor Warstone replied.

"These spring days are as treacherous as usual. There isn't a lively view to be seen from your windows, but you must contrive to amuse him indoors."

"I shall soon be able to amuse myself," Ronald declared. "There's the guitar, you know, doctor; it's one of the best companions in the world for an invalid. By Jove, Louie, I forgot to ask you if it had got damaged in the smash?"

"What smash?" Doctor Warstone asked.

I was glad that he put the question; it prevented me from answering my husband.

"It was only a cab collision," I replied. "Very little mischief was done. At first I was afraid Ronald would suffer, but he seems to be none the worse for it."

"Are you quite sure you are none the worse for it?" demanded the doctor, looking searchingly at me.

"Do you think she is?" cried Ronald, anxiously. "She did look uncommonly pale afterwards. Louie, if there are any sprains or bruises that you haven't mentioned—"

"I always mention everything," I interrupted, laughing.

Doctor Warstone got up to take his leave, telling Ronald that it was time for him to go to bed. I followed the doctor out into the passage, closing the parlour door behind me.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "Nerves out of order? The cab smash must have given you a shake."

"It didn't hurt me. But, oh, doctor, how foolish you will think me!"

"I have thought you foolish ever since I first saw you," he responded, with one of his kindly smiles.

"I know; everybody does. I am fretting about the guitar. I don't know how to tell my poor boy that it is broken; and—worse still—I can't imagine how we shall get another."

"A man with a good little wife can exist without a guitar. You are at your old tricks—taking things too seriously."

"I daresay it seems so," I admitted, meekly. "But, do you believe in hereditary tendencies?"

"Humph! What of that?"

"Ronald's love of the guitar is hereditary. His aunt, Inez Greystock, is said to have been passionately attached to her guitar. She could not rest unless it was ever by her side: her hands were seeking for it always. It is the same with Ronald. When he finds that the thing is battered and useless, there will be something gone from his life. I can hardly hope to make you understand all that it has been to him."

"Humph," said the doctor again. "Suppose I say that it is quite possible to replace this precious guitar. Suppose I tell you that I know of one—a good one, too—that you can have for nothing. Will that comfort you, I wonder?"

"Comfort me! You are like a good magician!"

"A good magician is only a doctor practising under another name. Now listen. Give Ronald his breakfast in bed to-morrow, and then leave him hurriedly, pretending that you must do some shopping. Make your way, as fast as you can, to Soho Square; saunter up and down before the door of the great piano store, and wait till I come."

"I will do all that you tell me," I promised, gratefully.

And he went into the dusk of the April night.

When I came back to Ronald, I found him comfortably drowsy, and ready for a long night's rest. He really was too sleepy to ask any more questions, or even to wonder what the doctor and I had been saying to each other in the entry. I had a bright fire burning in the bedroom, and I carried the shaded lamp out of the parlour, and sat down to sew by my husband's bedside.

He soon fell into a sound slumber. I sat sewing, and listening to his regular breathing, thinking of the time when he would be quite strong and well again.

The future had to be faced. Illness is a terrible thing to people whose means are small. Our scanty purse could hardly meet all the demands that Ronald's sickness had made upon it. Expensive medicine and nourishment—heavy lodging-house bills—fees to servants—all amounted to a sum total that made my brain dizzy when I thought of it.

One of Lady Waterville's parting prophecies had been already fulfilled. I wished I could forget her words, but they were haunting my memory to-night. She had said that before the first year of my married life had ended, I should taste poverty. Then there would be disappointment—then bitter regret. Why did she say such things? Even if my future had been verily revealed to her, she might have closed her lips, and let me go my way. I would scarcely acknowledge that I knew the taste of poverty yet; but some of its bitterness I did know. Well as I loved my nurse, it hurt my pride to live in her house, and get into her debt, as I was doing now. It is true that she gladly trusted me, and had perfect confidence in the coming of better days; but I smarted secretly under the sense of humiliation.

Some women were clever enough to bring grist to the mill, but I was not of that gifted sisterhood. Story-writing was far beyond my powers, and although I could make little songs for Ronald to sing, I was by no means tempted to fancy myself a poet. All the talents that I possessed were decidedly commonplace. Sewing, converting old gowns into new, mending neatly, and wearing shabby clothes in a way that did not reveal their shabbiness, this was almost all that I could do.

Well, I was tasting some of the bitterness of the poverty; but how about the disappointment and the bitter regret? Nothing would persuade me that I should ever be disappointed in Ronald. Mine was not a blind love. I had never thought that I was marrying a perfect being; nor did I want perfection. To me, the poor human idol, full of divers faults and flaws, was far dearer than an immaculate saint set high above my head.

The warm room and the monotonous work began to have a sleepy influence upon me at last. I had spent many wakeful nights, and now that the anxiety was ended, I often found myself dropping off unawares into a nap. With my sewing still in my hands, I dozed sitting in the chair, and then I had a curious dream.

I dreamt that I was standing before a mirror, looking at the reflection of my own face and figure. My arms, neck, and head were glittering with wonderful jewels; and yet it did not seem strange to me that I should be decked out in such a regal fashion. The glitter of the gems was almost too bright to be borne—so bright that I woke with a start, and found that a coal in the grate had burst into a brilliant blaze. No doubt it was that sudden light, dancing before my closed eyes, that had been the cause of my dream.

The hands of my watch pointed to a quarter to ten. I rose from my seat, undressed as quietly as possible, and went to bed. All night long I slept as soundly and peacefully as a child, and the dream did not come to me again.

I woke at seven the next morning, and got up without noise to wash and dress. Looking through the window of my little dressing-room, I saw the London sun shining cheerfully on the yard where nurse had cultivated ferns and ivy. She seemed to have had uncommon luck with her plants, for they flourished as town-plants seldom do. The bold sparrows were twittering merrily in the early light, and their notes were full of joy and hope. After all, there were plenty of chances in life; and the world was not quite as dark as it had seemed to my fancy last night.

Ronald had slept well, and was wide awake when I brought him the breakfast-tray. I had found time to tell nurse about my mysterious appointment in Soho Square. She entered heartily into my little plan, and came into the parlour while I was putting on my bonnet and mantle.

"Where is Mrs. Hepburne?" my husband asked, when nurse went to see how he was getting on with breakfast.

"Gone out for a little fresh air and shopping, sir," I heard her answer, promptly. "She'll be back in half-an-hour. Nothing like a morning run, sir, for one who has been nursing, you know. Dear me, how fast you are picking up, to be sure!"

I hastened out of the house, knowing well enough that I could trust the good soul to look after Ronald in my absence. At the top of my speed I raced along Oxford Street, keeping pace with the bustling clerks on their way to business, and never once stopping to glance at a shop window. When I turned at last into Soho Street, I was out of breath, and glad to stroll slowly along the pavement of the old square. Neither the doctor nor his carriage were to be seen; I was the first at the place of rendezvous, and had leisure to rest and look round.

First I looked at the piano store, and wondered how the doctor knew that there was a guitar to be found there? And then I stood still, and gazed at the so-called garden in the middle of the square, and watched my merry friends, the sparrows, hopping about on the budding twigs. This uncountrified spot of green had a sort of attraction for my eyes, and kept my thoughts busy till Dr. Warstone's carriage came rattling up to the place where I stood.

"Good morning," said the doctor, cheerily. "Haven't been waiting long, have you? Now come with me, and I'll introduce you to the guitar."

"Is it in here?" I asked, as we entered the warehouse.

"It is up in a room high above the store. I hope you don't mind stairs. The fact is that Messrs. Harkaby are good people, and are kind enough to give a poor old piano-tuner a shelter for his head. He won't need it much longer; he is going fast. The other day he asked me if I knew any one who would care to have his guitar? I told him I would find somebody, and now I am keeping my word."

He did not tell me that he himself was the best friend that the dying man possessed; but as I followed him up those long flights of stairs, I quickly guessed the truth. One might know Doctor Warstone for years without finding out one quarter of the good that he did every day. Often and often I have heard clergymen extolled to the skies for doing splendid things which a doctor does naturally and simply, never getting a word of praise. They are great men, these doctors who toil in our large towns—cheerful in the midst of sorrow, quick to help, prompt to save. And to this day, when any one talks about an ideal hero, the face of Doctor Warstone rises up in my memory, and I think of all the noble deeds, known and unknown, that this quiet worker has done.

We got at length to the top of the last flight, and paused before a door on the landing.

"I will go in first," the doctor said, "and prepare Monsieur Léon for your coming. You will not mind waiting here for a few moments while I speak to my patient?"