So the days went placidly by till, though she was as yet, of course, unable to set foot to ground, the doctor promised that before long she might expect to be getting about once more, without any ill-effects from her accident. The nurse’s position, relieved by Gundred’s assiduities, grew more and more formal, more and more of a sinecure. She spent most of her time among the servants in the Castle, and her own looking-glass saw less and less of her. There were her morning duties and a few routine services to be discharged later, but in the evening, when Isabel had dined, she could safely be left to the care of Kingston and Gundred, while Nurse Molly, her fringe in perfection, could go and delight the housekeeper’s room away in the Drum Tower.
The conversations between the three over Isabel’s bedside took many a strange turn. Gundred was never encouraged by either Kingston or Isabel to feel any of her inability to take an adequate part. They chatted of everything that interested them, and Gundred was compelled to believe herself interested also.
‘Now that the pain is over,’ said Isabel one night, ‘one wonders, looking back, what it was all about—what it meant, what it really was.’
‘Oh, they always say a broken bone is dreadfully painful,’ replied Gundred. ‘I have always heard so—yes? Dear Isabel, you bore it so bravely.’
‘One has to worry through,’ rejoined Isabel. ‘But what I meant was, why is the pain there? What makes a cracked bone produce all the unpleasant effects it does on one’s consciousness. It sends all kinds of horrible little burning, grinding, stabbing messages of spite to the brain. That is what pain is. But what are all those little messages for? Why does the beastly bone go on repeating itself so? If it only told the brain once and for all that it was broken, that ought to be quite enough. I hate a tautologous bone.’
‘Yes,’ said Kingston, ‘but it only goes on sending those messages when your brain tries to disregard them. Your leg only hurt when you tried to move it. Pain is simply the repeated warning of Nature.’
‘And the test of endurance—yes?’ put in Gundred. ‘Pain has the most marvellously elevating effect.’
For a moment the conversation lapsed. They were sitting in the oaken parlour after dinner. The hour was growing late, and soon Nurse Molly might be expected to come and shut up Isabel for the night. However, at present she was at the other end of the Castle, taking her pleasure with the rest of the household, and the old wooden wing, with its inhabitants, was left quite deserted.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Isabel. ‘Pain is absolutely horrible. I am a coward about it. I loathe and dread it altogether. Pain and death—dying, rather—are awful to me. I love being alive and warm in the blessed world. Dissolution is ghastly. For nothing would I give up the joy of living. Oh, agony is too horrible. It’s not a lesson so much as a punishment. Oh yes, a punishment, even if it’s for something one has done hundreds of years ago, before one was in this body at all.’
‘Oh, what a dreadful idea!’ cried Gundred, shocked—‘a terrible unchristian idea!’