‘My dear boy,’ said this mendacious epistle, ‘my head is still rather bad, and Dr. Jordan thought that it would be wiser if I were to have an undisturbed rest, but I will send down to you when I feel better. Until then I had best, perhaps, remain alone. Mr. Harrison sent round to say that he would come to help you to pot the bulbs, so that will give you something to do. Don’t bother about me, for I only want a little rest.—Maude.’
It seemed very unnatural to him to come back and not to hear the swift rustle of the dress which followed always so quickly upon the creak of his latch-key that they might have been the same sound. The hall and dining-room seemed unhomely without the bright welcoming face. He wandered about in a discontented fashion upon his tiptoes, and then, looking through the window, he saw Harrison his neighbour coming up the path with a straw basket in his hand. He opened the door for him with his finger upon his lips.
‘Don’t make a row, Harrison,’ said he, ‘my wife’s bad.’
Harrison whistled softly.
‘Not—?’
‘No, no, not that. Only a headache, but she is not to be disturbed. We expect that next week. Come in here and smoke a pipe with me. It was very kind of you to bring the bulbs.’
‘I am going back for some more.’
‘Wait a little. You can go back presently. Sit down and light your pipe. There is some one moving about upstairs. It must be that heavy-footed Jemima. I hope she won’t wake Maude up. I suppose one must expect such attacks at such a time.’
‘Yes, my wife was just the same. No, thank you, I’ve just had some tea. You look worried, Crosse. Don’t take things too hard.’
‘I can’t get the thought of next week out of my head. If anything goes wrong—well there, what can I do? I never knew how a man’s nerves may be harrowed before. And she is such a saint, Harrison—such an absolutely unselfish saint! You’ll never guess what she tried to do.’