Of course she was happy—happy, and with a heart at rest as it had not been for months and months. But still it would be a great comfort when Jervis was up. She hated to see him lying there, helpless, given over to ministrations other than her own.
As she went through the door, the nurse stopped her and said, “Would you go into Mr. Robey’s study, Miss Otway? I think Sir John Blake wants to see you before he goes back to town. Mr. Jenkinson has already gone; he had to be there for a consultation at six.”
Rose looked at her, a little surprised. It was as if the kind little nurse was speaking for the sake of speaking.
She went down the quiet house, past the door of the large ward where the four other wounded officers now lay, all going on, she was glad to know, very well, and all having had a visit from Mr. Jenkinson, the London specialist.
She hurried on, smiling a little as she did so. She was no longer afraid of Sir John Blake. In fact she was becoming very fond of him, though it hurt her always to hear how sharply and irritably he spoke to his gentle, yielding wife. Of course Lady Blake was very unreasonable sometimes—but she was so helpless, so clinging, and so fond of Jervis.
And then, as she turned a corner—for “Robey’s” consisted of three houses, through each of which an intercommunication had been made—there fell on Rose Otway’s ear a very dreadful sound, that of some one crying in wild, unbridled grief. The sound came from Mrs. Robey’s little sitting-room, and suddenly Rose heard her own mother’s voice raised in expostulation. She was evidently trying to comfort and calm the poor stranger—doubtless the mother or wife of one of the four officers upstairs. Two days ago one of these visitors had had something very like a fit of hysterics after seeing her wounded husband. Rose shrank from the memory. But this was worse—far worse. She hurried on into Mr. Robey’s study.
The study, which was a very agreeable room, overlooked the Close. It was panelled with dark old oak, and lined on one side with books, and opposite the centre window hung Mr. Robey’s greatest treasure, a watercolour by Turner of Witanbury Cathedral, painted from the meadows behind the town.
To-day Mr. Robey himself was not there, but his brother and Sir John Blake were both waiting for her. Eagerly she walked forward into the room, and as she did so she made a delightful picture—or so those two men, so very different the one from the other, thought—of youth, of happiness, and yes, of young love satisfied.
Sir Jacques took a step forward. The General did not move at all. He was standing with his back to the further window, his face in shadow.
“Now, Miss Rose, I want you to listen very carefully to me for a few minutes.”