“Well, then, my looks don’t belie me. Who shouldn’t look famous with her friends and family coming to see her like this? Dora, my dear, you’ve got to take my place to-day, if you’d be so kind, for there’s the concert this evening, and I won’t have it put off. Lor’, I shall be here, as comfortable as ever I was, with my door open, and listening, and feel that I was with you all, wearing my new tiara and shaking hands. No, my dear, there’s no sense in putting it off. Such nonsense! I’ve asked our friends to come and see us this evening, and them as feel inclined shall come, if my word is anything. But we’ll be a woman short at dinner, thanks to my silliness. I wonder if Lady Austell would be able to come, for there’s the savoury of prawns as she took twice of last time she dined with us. I bid her to the party, I know, but not to dinner, I think. Claude, do you go and telephone to her now for me, and you, Mr. O., go down and help him; and I’ll chat to Dora the while.”
There was no mistaking the intention of this diplomacy, and the two men left the room. Then Lady Osborne turned to Dora.
“My dear,” she said, “you’ll have heard all there is to know. And I just want to tell you that I’m facing it O. K., as Claude says. There’ll be nothing on my part to make anybody else shake and tremble. But you’ll have an eye to your dad, dear. He feels it more than me, though God knows, I’m coward enough really. It’s got to be, and though I hate the thought of the knife—well, my dear, those as are born into the world and have the pleasure of it have to take the troubles as well as the joys. And if they find the worst, I’m prepared for that, as long as I know you’ll stick to Mr. O., and help him. And there’s Claude, too. Sometimes I’ve thought you’ve not been so happy together as I could have wished. I don’t know what is wrong, but I’ve thought sometimes as all isn’t quite right. I wanted to say just that to you; that was why I sent them down together, so crafty. But he loves you, my dear, and you can’t do more than love. And you’re going to bear him a child, please God. My dear, that’s the best thing God ever thought of, if I may say so, for us women. I’ve had two, bless them, and I should have liked to have had a hundred. I’d have borne each one with thanksgiving.”
She was silent a moment.
“Claude’s a kind lad,” she said. “He takes after father. And he loves you, too. I’m not presuming, I hope, my dear. That’s all that’s been on my mind, and I wanted to get it said. You’ll forgive an old woman as is your boy’s mother. Thank you, my dear, for giving me that kiss. I’ll treasure that. I’ll think of that when they send me off to sleep to-morrow.”
The others came back at this moment with the news that Lady Austell would come to dinner.
“Now that’s nice for your brother,” said Lady Osborne. “He’ll like to find his mamma here.”
Dora had telephoned to Jim to say she would come and see him after lunch. Since receiving his note that morning, she had given but little thought to what he might have to say to her, for these other events banished all else from her mind. In spite of that which lay before them all, she could hardly feel sad, she could hardly feel anxious, for the noble simplicity and serenity of the other three infected her, to the exclusion of all else, with its own peace. She had not got to comfort anybody, to make any effort herself; she was lifted off her feet and borne along in these beautiful shining waters of courage and quietness. Indeed, it seemed to her that no one was making any effort at all; she did not find her father-in-law sitting with his head in his hands, and rousing himself, when she came in, to a semblance of cheerfulness; she did not see Claude trying to suppress signs of emotion. They all behaved quite naturally. At first it amazed her, for she knew, at any rate, that there was no lack of love and tenderness in either of them; it seemed that they must be exerting some stupendous control over themselves. Then she saw, slowly but surely, how wide of the mark such an explanation was. They were exerting no control at all, they behaved like that because they felt like that, because their attitude toward life and death and love was serene and large and quiet. All these months it had been there for her to see, but, inexplicably blind as she now felt she had been, she had needed this demonstration of it before she began, even faintly, to understand.
It was no wonder, then, that Jim’s affairs had been obliterated from her mind, but now as she entered that flat, she wondered what he wanted that should make him wish to see her in this appointed way. For a moment, with a sickening qualm, she went back to that quarter of an hour’s suspense on Saturday morning, when she had allowed herself to fear that he was connected in some hideous fashion with the cheque Claude could not recollect about. That had haunted her afterward, too, when she lay long awake at Grote on Saturday night; but Claude had said so emphatically that the cheque was all right, that she felt her fear to be fanciful. Meantime Jim did not yet know about Lady Osborne, and as soon as she entered she told him.
“Oh, Jim!” she said, “we are in trouble. Lady Osborne has got to have an operation. There is something wrong, and they want to see what it is. There is a growth of some sort. And, oh, I have been so blind, so blind! They are all behaving so splendidly, and yet behaviour is the wrong word; they behave splendidly just because they are splendid. I never guessed they were like that. I’ll tell you all about it. But first, what did you want to see me about? You don’t look well, dear. What is it?”