CHAPTER XVI
FOREBODINGS
I am very weary. In the old days, before my accident, it was my boast that I was never tired. Perhaps the exertion of conciliating Peter, of trying to keep the peace between him and Amelia, has been too much for me these sultry days. I know not. But I do know that I am always tired. The sort of tiredness which makes me say, "Go away, Amelia," when she brings my hot water, and lays my tea-gown and brush and comb on the bed, and the long arduous task of being dressed lies before me. "Leave me for another hour, please." And of course she argues and says the water will go cold; and I tell her I prefer it so, closing my eyes wearily to show that the discussion is finished.
She surveys me, I know, in surprise. How can I be tired when I do absolutely nothing but lie still, when she is quite fresh after doing the whole work of the universe? "Amelia, there is a weariness of the spirit which is greater than that of the flesh. You cannot understand this. A weariness which leads you to no other desire but that of lying quite still with your eyes closed, which makes you regard the simple act of combing out your own hair as tantamount to one of the Herculean labours. You would almost prefer its being tangled to going through the exertion of getting it straight. That you would like to disentangle it for me, I know, but I shudder at the very thought. You are kind, but you don't understand how very tired I am. I want to rest a little longer."
Even the prospect of being under the apple tree, in the proximity of my friends the ants, doesn't tempt me. The dressing has to be got through first. It hurts—the lifting from the bed to the couch—though Amelia is very tender. It jars—that being wheeled from the hall on to the step. I want to be without steps and doors, and corners and turnings and sudden descents. I want to be on a gentle, inclined plane—on a soft, billowy cloud, on wings of thistledown. I am tired of my body. It is troublesome and aching. I would gladly have done with it to-day. Oh, that I could step out of it and into a new, whole, strong body—radiant and beautiful—for Dimbie's sake.
It is hard that these bodies have to get so tired before we have done with them. God sends this weariness, I suppose, to make the passing easier. I am thinking of Aunt Letitia now. She has gone, she has done with the world, she knows what is behind the veil.
Dimbie says she just slept herself away. She was conscious almost to the last, but was too tired even to eat a grape. Then she fell asleep.
Dimbie will be coming home now, but—not for four days. Four days seem a long time in which to bury a very tired, little, old lady. What am I saying? Am I growing selfish? "Forgive me, Aunt Letitia. I will not grudge Dimbie to you at the last, when you have done so much for him." And the time will pass, for mother and Peter are still here, and one cannot be dull when Peter is in the neighbourhood.
I hear Amelia's footsteps. She enters the room and tells me I must get up. It is useless asking her to permit me to have "a little slumber, a little sleep, a little folding of the hands to sleep," for she tells me that it is dining-room day, which means that she must clean it, and cannot waste any more time on an idle, troublesome girl.
I ask her if I may lie in Nature's own garments under the apple tree, with just a soft, silken coverlet thrown over me; and she is scandalised, and says most probably Mr. Brook, the vicar, or Mrs. Cobbold may call.
"Amelia," I say, "I am tired of your threatening me with Mr. Brook. We have lived here for six months, and he does not seem to be dreaming of calling upon us. As for Mrs. Cobbold—well, she will never call again."
"Mr. Brook has been ill," she argues.
"Mrs. Brook might have called."
"She has been too busy nursing him."
"Poor woman! She must be quite glad of an excuse, then, not to call," I said. "I have the truest sympathy for clergymen's wives, always going to see stupid parishioners because it is considered their duty. I only hope she will not call."
"We never use the best china," said Amelia sadly.
"Use it while mother is here," I said cheeringly; "it will be a good opportunity."
She shook her head.
"It's too good for common use. Mrs. Macintosh might stay a fortnight, and he might smash it." ("He" is Peter.)
I ask her what they are doing with themselves, and she says Peter is scrattlin' his feet about on the doorstep like an old hen.
She attacks me with a brush, and I implore her to permit my hair to hang loose to-day. I explain that it is all in a tangle, and perhaps a passing breeze might disentangle it, so saving us much trouble. She regards me severely, and says no breeze will think of knocking about, that it is about 80 degrees in the shade, and that if I wish Mr. Brook to see me, of course—
"Put it up," I cry; "and if you dangle Mr. Brook in front of my eyes once again I will throw something at you."
She tells me to calm myself, and, picking me up, lays me on the couch and trundles me out of the front door.
And here I lie refusing to do anything but gaze at the soft, white, eider-down clouds which seem to be trying to tuck up the blue. Amelia has tried to make me eat. I have refused. Mother has tried to engage me in a conversation about Dimbie—artful mother! I have refused. Peter has tried to draw me into a quarrel. I have still refused. And now they have all gone away and left me. Praised be the gods!
*****
As the shadows began to lengthen upon the lawn I fell asleep, and when I opened my eyes, very slowly, for I did not want to return to a world without Dimbie, I found Dr. Renton sitting at the side of my couch watching me intently. I fancied that he had been there for some time, and I felt vaguely uneasy.
"May I smoke?" was his first question.
"Of course," I said. "Have you been here long?"
"About half an hour." He struck a match.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"You had a bad night?"
I nodded.
"It was the heat."
"Where's your husband? It's time he was home, isn't it?" He took out his watch.
"He's away."
"Away! Well, he's no right to be away when you are so—feeling the heat. What's he doing?"
"My husband was obliged to go to an aunt of his who was dying," I said with dignity.
"What does she mean by dying now?" he said with asperity.
"She's not, she's dead."
"Ah, that's better!" he observed in a most shameless manner. "He will be returning to-day?"
"Not for four days. He must wait for the funeral. This aunt practically brought him up."
"Well, she's not bringing him up now," he said, marching about the lawn. "His duty lies at home."
"Dimbie knows his duty as well as any man," I said stiffly.
Dr. Renton laughed.
"I beg your pardon, but——"
"You think I am fretting for him?"
"Yes, I do. Your face is like a bit of white notepaper."
"The heat," I said.
"Are you eating properly?"
"Who could eat in this weather?"
"Are you sleeping well?"
"Dr. Renton, I don't want to talk of myself."
"But we must. What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing."
"Are you tired?"
"I have just been to sleep."
"Look here, Marguerite," he said sternly, sitting down and staring into my face, "answer my questions properly—I am your medical adviser—or I will call in Mr. Rovell; in fact, I am going to persuade Rovell to have a look at you in any case."
"Call in Mr. Rovell?" I said blankly.
He nodded.
"Candidly, I am not satisfied with your appearance. You are much thinner."
"Mr. Rovell can't make me fatter."
"I shall bring him this week—say Thursday."
I stared at him, dismayed and frightened.
"I don't see the sense of making Dimbie fork out another big fee," I quavered, "and I'm—I'm quite well."
"Are you? How's the back?"
"It's quite—well, thanks."
"I thought you were truthful."
"Well, it's pretty well."
"Marguerite," he said gently, holding my hand, "I don't want to frighten you. As you say, your white, rose-leaf face and hands may be the result of the great heat, but—I think it well to have another opinion. It cannot do you any harm, it may do you good, and at any rate it will satisfy me."
MARGUERITE, I DON'T WANT TO FRIGHTEN YOU
"Very well," I said, laying my face on his hand for a moment, "but I—am frightened."
"I know," he replied. "I have seen fear, sickening anxiety, written on the faces of many of my patients when the great specialist—the man who will pronounce their doom or otherwise—has entered the room, only to be followed by a great joy. We must hope and pray that this joy will be yours. It must be," he said almost savagely, getting up and kicking over his chair. "You are too young always to lie still." The last words were muttered to himself but I caught them, and a momentary darkness rose before my eyes, but I brushed it away as something tangible.
"You—but you do think it will be well with me, Dr. Renton?" and the bitter entreaty of my cry startled my own ears.
Voices came across the garden, and mother and Peter appeared through the gate.
Dr. Renton hesitated a moment, and then went to meet them.
My question remained unanswered.