There was no doubt she was in earnest over this; that week at Munich with Hugh, even now within half an hour of the news she had heard, seemed to her to matter more than anything else. A far less acute man than Sir Thomas could have seen that.
“Of course, if you intend to fret over not having gone—” he began.
“I don’t intend to; I shan’t be able to avoid it, and, indeed, I will be so good afterwards and so determined to get well. But just a little more happiness first!”
Yes; the thought of missing Munich clearly touched her more intimately than the knowledge that this deadly disease had built nests in her. It was the child’s cry for “five minutes more” before bedtime, five minutes of romance, of play. Munich and its music, much as she loved it, was, in itself, nothing to her; what she could not bear to miss was this extra week of holiday, this one more week of Hugh’s unsuspecting, joyful companionship. However well he bore this news when he knew, he would still be bearing it. Until she was well again, if she was going to get well, his sky would always be overcast; he would be anxious, solicitous, with fear always in the back of his mind, however well he hid it, and she felt she must be partner for just a little while more of his riotous boyish happiness, which was so “Hugh” to her. Some part of this, no doubt, Sir Thomas guessed; he knew at any rate that she had set her mind on another week of life. He knew, too, from his previous knowledge of her, that she was one of those whose body is in fine obedience to their will, and whose will is set on health and the joy of living.
“But will you be sensible during that week at Munich?” he asked. “Will you rest when you are tired, and stop at home and not go to the opera if you feel it is too much for you?”
Edith took her hands away from her eyes with a superb wide gesture. Her need was imperative; she did not care what price was paid for it.
“No, I won’t promise to be in the least sensible during that week,” she said. “I might just as well not go to Munich at all, as be sensible. I mean to have a splendid time just for one week more, to watch Hugh’s complete happiness just for that week, and know that it is mine. And if I die a month sooner in consequence, I will say ‘Thank God for Munich,’ with my latest breath. After that week I will tell Hugh everything; I will be very good, very obedient, and, oh, how cheerful! But I will have this week as we planned it.”
At heart Sir Thomas exulted in the obstinacy of his patient. He loved those who loved the joys of living, and made light of their infirmities even at the risk of increasing them. But he felt professionally bound to apply the brake here.
“But, my dear lady, how can you have a splendid time—which with all my heart I desire for you—if you are feeling very tired and languid? You can’t—your body must react on your mind. Also you will risk having another hæmorrhage; you will risk, for the sake of a week, doing yourself a damage that it may take six months to repair.”
Edith leaned forward in her chair, brilliant, radiant, her brave soul shining like a beacon in her tired eyes.