“I can’t, oh, I can’t!” She raised her face to his. There was a pause. Ordham stared at her, fascinated, almost forgetting his anger. He had never seen such big tears. One by one the immense crystal drops welled from those dark pools and slipped down her flushed cheeks. He felt that a woman was fortunate indeed to possess such a gift as those beautiful iridescent spheres, which, no doubt, she could command at will—irresistibly his thoughts flew to the soap bubbles of his boyhood—mechanically he began to count them—Mabel suddenly gave a strangled cry of defeat and rage, sprang to her feet, and fled from the room.
For two hours he sat by the fire and smoked, depressed and apprehensive, but determined. Then he went upstairs and knocked at his wife’s door. It was locked, but in a few moments the maid opened it gently and announced that Mrs. Ordham, after crying for the past two hours without pause, had fallen asleep.
On the following morning Hines informed him that mademoiselle—the maid—was quite worried: her mistress had cried all night, and was now in such an hysterical condition that she thought of sending for the doctor. Once more the husband craved admittance and was denied. He went for a ride, the weather being fine again. Upon his return he was told that the doctor was with his wife. In real alarm, he posted himself beside Mabel’s door, and in a few moments the little old man who had ushered him into the world came out.
“No—no—nothing serious, of course not. That is to say—you understand. She became alarmingly wrought up at the prospect of leaving England—you know what fancies—”
Ordham felt as if his very marrow had turned cold. “Not yet—surely not yet—” he stammered.
The doctor nodded. He rubbed his hands, feeling important and a trifle excited. “Indulge her for the present. You have the rest of your life for that career of lies they call diplomacy. Indulge this dear child, or I won’t answer for the consequences—her maid tells me that even when crossed in ordinary circumstances her health is menaced—the poor dear spoilt child of fortune! And so beautiful! I have pledged her my professional word to persuade you to remain in England for a year, at least. And what more natural, more beautiful, indeed, than this wish of hers that your first child should be born at Ordham? Think, too, of foreign doctors! So, go in, dear boy, and promise her to sit tight. Do, and she’ll be as fit as a fiddle to-morrow.”
Ordham, baffled and helpless, turned on his heel. “You can tell her that I will remain in England—of course,” he said. “I will see her in an hour or two. Just now I wish to go for a walk.”
XLIII
THE WOMAN’S INNINGS
Ordham walked far out on the moor, then returned, not to the house, but to stroll up and down between the avenue of plane trees that connected it with the Italian garden. He finally threw himself down on a seat in his favourite spot. Above the glassy lake was a broken grey balustrade covered with mould and barely outlined against the stiff old cypresses beyond. In a dark grove on his right were marble seats, several noseless fauns and nymphs, the whole scene so reminiscent of Italy that his mind, always liable to peculiar deflections, experienced once more a sense of infidelity to Margarethe Styr: so often they had planned together that month in Italy which he had been the one to suggest, and this had been a favourite spot for making love to his bride.
He was too indolent to cherish anger for any great length of time, but resentment lingered, and since his talk with the doctor not only had it increased, but he felt that old sense of humiliation in not rising to an occasion. He had a hazy idea that young husbands always flew enraptured to worship their brides anew when informed that their ego had taken a fresh lease; but he felt anything but enraptured. Not only was he very much embarrassed, but, while shrinking from arranging the idea in words, he felt that Mabel, in her determination to press on to victory at any cost in this their first battle, had been indelicate in taking advantage of what could be little more than inference on the part of the doctor aided by her own canny suggestions. Wild horses would not have dragged such an admission from him until the last possible moment. How could she have talked it over with Cresswell—and, no doubt, with her maid? The ideal Mabel whom he had distractedly worshipped for one interminable fortnight had trembled more than once on her pedestal during the intimacy of the honeymoon, but it took this final conscious offence to sweep her off and leave her standing at the base, still beautiful, young, and fascinating, but for evermore bereft of illusion.