She wondered if he had kept the blue ribbon she had given him; even now her cheeks coloured above their fever to think how intolerant she had been in those days. But perhaps she was just as bad now, or had other faults still worse; she tossed unhappily and thought upon all the mistakes she was for ever making. Then Nellie’s cool fingers touched her forehead and replaced a wet, lavender-sweet handkerchief, and she dropped off into an uneasy slumber.
She thought they were binding her head round and round with ribbon, pale blue with creases in it; it held her down to the bed so that she could not move; and there in the dancing river little Essie was struggling, the grey look of death on her small sweet face.
Then that torture shifted, and it was Pip who was struggling, and he could not put out his arms to swim because he had a monstrous gold wedding-ring binding them to his body. And Peter was at the top of the forbidden tree, and Poppet shrieking to him to come down. And Bunty was in the hospital with scarlet fever, and they could not give him medicine because he would not tell his name.
For several days troubles of this kind lasted, with short unrefreshing waking intervals when her mouth [269] ]was parched, her throat swollen, and her head throbbing.
On the sixth morning she opened her eyes about eleven o’clock. Nellie was mixing lemon drink at a small table, and Alan was standing by the bedside, Alan with a face grown quite haggard, and a look in his eyes that had never quite left them since she fell ill.
“Am I getting better or worse?” she said, for his look made her suddenly fearful for herself.
But he brightened instantly, for, in truth, the anxiety was almost over, only he could not shake it off at once.
“Much better,” he said. “Do you know you have been asleep since nine last night?”
“How many hours is that?” she asked, with smiling languor; “my brain’s asleep yet, I can’t count.” But neither could he. His lip trembled suddenly, and he put his face down on hers.
She slipped her thin hands round his neck.