Chapter XXXIX

“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.