Cassandra narrowed her eyes, and stared into space, but no man’s face pictured itself in her mind; for ten long years Bernard had, for good or ill, filled the foreground of her life, not the mildest of flirtations had been hers. She was a pure-minded woman, bred on conventional lines, and the idea of a lover would have outraged her delicacy. In considering the events which might possibly vitalise the future, her mind dwelt on strictly legitimate happenings. A serious illness,—her own,—Bernard’s,—the boy’s; the loss of money; a lengthened separation, which would revive joys staled by custom. Regarded dispassionately the prospects were not cheerful, nevertheless she found herself cheered by the contemplation. She saw herself occupied, engrossed, with something to do, a real object in life. It might be a reviving experience to have one of the Bernards—not dangerously so, of course, but just enough ill to feel dependent on the one woman in the family. Even to be ill oneself would have points. She would sit propped up against her best pillow covers, wearing a distracting bed jacket and cap, and Bernard would come in, and look at her, and say,—What would he say? Cassandra’s smile was twisted with a pathetic humour. “Holloa, old girl. Got ’em all on! Bucking up a bit, ain’t you? I’m off for a ride...” Rather a tame dénouement to which to look forward as the reward for weeks of suffering! Cassandra determined on the whole that she would rather keep well.
And the two Bernards,—what sort of convalescents would they make? Cassandra drew a mental picture of the sick room, with the older patient stretched on a couch, and herself seated by his side, a devoted and assiduous nurse, but there was an obstinate commonplaceness about father and son which refused to adapt itself to the scene. Bernard would have no reflections to make on the wonder of life restored; he would want to hear the Sporting Times read aloud, and the latest news of the crops. His tenderest acknowledgment of her care would be a, “Looking a bit peaked, old girl! What’s the sense of paying a nurse and doing the work yourself?” As for the boy, he would talk cricket, be politely bored, and surreptitiously wipe off kisses. Cassandra determined that on the whole the two Bernards had better keep well also!
As for poverty—one would certainly have enough to do to run a house on a few hundreds a year, but though viewed generally the prospect sounded picturesque, a definite narrowing down to a comparison with one of the many Chumley homesteads, brought a quick shudder of distaste. The narrow rooms, the inferior servants, the infinitesimal gardens,—Cassandra thrust out her hands in horror of the thought, and laughed a soft, full-throated laugh.
“If I am bound to be dissatisfied, let me at least have room to be dissatisfied in! I could bear being stinted in almost anything rather than space. If Bernard loses his money, we’ll go abroad and live on a prairie,—anything rather than a stifling villa.”
She turned her head as the door opened, and her husband entered, and crossed the room to a bureau in the far corner. He wore the usual tweed suit, the Norfolk jacket accentuating his increasing width, the loose knickerbockers revealing large, well-shaped legs. His skin was tanned to a rich brown, his eyes were a clear hard blue, his teeth strong and white, his moustache was cut in a straight harsh line along the upper lip. His cool gaze included his wife with the rest of the furnishings, but he gave no acknowledgment of her presence; not a flicker of expression passed over his face.
There came to Cassandra suddenly, irrepressibly, the necessity of shocking him into life. She was not a woman who indulged in scenes; it came naturally to her to hide her feelings, and act a part before the world. If Bernard had not entered at just that psychological moment, if he had looked one bit less sleek, and satisfied, and dense, she could have gone on acting, as she had done for years past; as it was, a desire for expression rose with giant force, and would not be gainsaid. Very well! So be it. For once she would speak out, and Bernard should hear. She had an acute, a devastating curiosity to hear what he would say.
“Bernard, are you busy? I want to speak to you.”
He turned his head. The clear tints of his skin looked startlingly healthy as seen in the light of the great open window.
“All right! Fire ahead.”
“Bernard, do you love me?”