so sweet—he especially, whom she had so
grievously distressed by her wretched marriage?
She would sit staring into the fire with her wide,
dark eyes, unblinking as an owl’s at night—wondering
what she could do to make up to her father, whom already
once she had nearly killed by coming into life.
And she began to practise the bearing of the coming
pain, trying to project herself into this unknown
suffering, so that it should not surprise from her
cries and contortions.
She had one dream, over and over again, of sinking
and sinking into a feather bed, growing hotter and
more deeply walled in by that which had no stay in
it, yet through which her body could not fall and
reach anything more solid. Once, after this dream,
she got up and spent the rest of the night wrapped
in a blanket and the eider-down, on the old sofa,
where, as a child, they had made her lie flat on her
back from twelve to one every day. Betty was
aghast at finding her there asleep in the morning.
Gyp’s face was so like the child-face she had
seen lying there in the old days, that she bundled
out of the room and cried bitterly into the cup of
tea. It did her good. Going back with
the tea, she scolded her “pretty” for
sleeping out there, with the fire out, too!
But Gyp only said:
“Betty, darling, the tea’s awfully cold!
Please get me some more!”
From the day of the nurse’s arrival, Winton
gave up hunting. He could not bring himself
to be out of doors for more than half an hour at a
time. Distrust of doctors did not prevent him
having ten minutes every morning with the old practitioner
who had treated Gyp for mumps, measles, and the other
blessings of childhood. The old fellow—his
name was Rivershaw—was a most peculiar survival.
He smelled of mackintosh, had round purplish cheeks,
a rim of hair which people said he dyed, and bulging
grey eyes slightly bloodshot. He was short in
body and wind, drank port wine, was suspected of taking
snuff, read The Times, spoke always in a husky voice,
and used a very small brougham with a very old black
horse. But he had a certain low cunning, which
had defeated many ailments, and his reputation for
assisting people into the world stood extremely high.
Every morning punctually at twelve, the crunch of
his little brougham’s wheels would be heard.
Winton would get up, and, taking a deep breath, cross
the hall to the dining-room, extract from a sideboard
a decanter of port, a biscuit-canister, and one glass.
He would then stand with his eyes fixed on the door,
till, in due time, the doctor would appear, and he
could say:
“Well, doctor? How is she?”
“Nicely; quite nicely.”
“Nothing to make one anxious?”
The doctor, puffing out his cheeks, with eyes straying
to the decanter, would murmur:
“Cardiac condition, capital—a little—um—not
to matter. Taking its course. These things!”
