Men and Wives Page 13

  “Yes, but have you noticed her this morning?”

  “I have not, Gregory, I have not. I have refrained from gratifying my curiosity, satisfying any particular anxiety on purpose. It seems to me a piece of consideration that we owe her.”

  “We owe her other things as well,” said Gregory.

  “We do, Gregory, we do. And whatever we owe her shall be given her in measure full to overflowing. My beauty, my lovely girl”—-Godfrey was now addressing his mare—“you don’t know what it is to be tossed and torn and have no peace, when you are doing your best for everyone, do you? No, and you shan’t know it. I would rather I and everybody belonging to me knew it, than you, my pretty, my sweet.”

  “We don’t often get so completely what we would choose.”

  “No, but she shall have it, she shall,” said Godfrey, assuming a concentration similar to his own. “Everything she shall have that her master can give her.”

  “Your benevolence seems to be genuine, but not of wide application.”

  “Well, I have always been a soft-hearted fellow, Gregory,” said Godfrey in a tone of disarming admission. “Any creature alive, man, woman, child, or beast, is certain of a response from me.”

  “I am sure of it,” said Gregory.

  “Ah, you are a good boy, Gregory, a kind son. Both your parents have reason to know it. Your father needs a little sympathy and understanding. He doesn’t have much of a time as a whole, much as he has to be thankful for. It is amazing what a man can get used to, and sad in a way. I don’t wish you my life, Gregory.”

  Gregory looked at his father with an affectionate smile coming over his face.

  “I don’t know which is the greater person, you or Mother.”

  “Ah, your mother is the greater, Gregory,” said Godfrey, in full, melodious tones, not repudiating the adjective. “Never be in any doubt about that.”

  “Every now and then I do have a doubt about it.”

  “Well, don’t, my boy,” said Godfrey, sweeping his hand from his horse to his son. “Don’t. Your father asks that of you.” He turned and left the stable with an emphatic tread.

  Chapter XIII

  Harriet Sent A message from her room that she would remain by herself, as she hoped to sleep. Towards evening Godfrey visited his wife, and they agreed that she should dine with her family. As the group awaited her in the drawing-room, Buttermere appeared.

  “Have arrangements been made for bringing her ladyship downstairs, Sir Godfrey?”

  “Bringing her ladyship downstairs? Whatever do you mean? Bringing her downstairs? Cannot she come downstairs?”

  “Do you mean that she cannot walk by herself?” said Gregory, looking up quickly.

  “I am not aware that she can, sir.”

  “Say what is in your mind, Buttermere,” said Jermyn, leaning back and nervously tapping the table.

  “I am under the impression that matters are as I have stated, sir.”

  “How was she when you saw her, Father?” said Matthew.

  “I think very much as usual. She was lying on the bed as if she did not want to be disturbed. I disturbed her as little as possible. We exchanged a word, and I left her.”

  “Have you been told that she cannot walk by herself? And if so, who told you?” said Jermyn to the butler.

  “I was given the information by Catherine, that that conclusion had been arrived at, sir.”

  Catherine was the housemaid who waited on Harriet, who cared for too little attendance to need a woman of her own. The father and sons exchanged a glance, and Jermyn and Gregory went to their mother’s room. They found her sitting in an upright chair, with her elbows resting on the arms. The maid was moving about the room, worried and unwilling to leave her. She looked up with the expectant, acquiescent air of a child awaiting help.

  “Why, cannot you come downstairs by yourself?” said Jermyn.

  “She seems unsteady on her feet, sir,” said the maid, “and she speaks much less than usual. She has only been really awake for about an hour since the morning. The upset of yesterday has been too much for her.”

  “Well, come along down to dinner, Mother,” said Gregory.

  Harriet raised her arms with a smile, for her sons to put their hands beneath them. She rose with their help, and moved downstairs between them, but gave no heed to her steps, and at every stumble fell into helpless emotion, and let them support her weight.

  “Harriet, my dear girl, what is this?” said her husband, who was holding open the door of the dining-room.

  Harriet gave another smile, and went with her head drooping forward to her seat, and taking it, looked in front of her. Gregory and Griselda watched her with startled eyes.

  “What is wrong with her?” said Godfrey.

  “I don’t know. What you see. We know no more,” said Jermyn. “Catherine says she has been asleep all day.”

  “I was not asleep,” said his mother, just shaking her head.

  “What were you doing then, my darling?” said Godfrey.

  “Not asleep. Just on the bed,” said Harriet, turning

  calm eyes upon him.

  “Oh, yes, you have been in bed, haven’t you?” said her

  husband.

  “Not in bed. On the bed,” said Harriet.

  “I came in twice to look at you, but you did not see me,” said Gregory.

  “Yes, I saw you,” said Harriet, smiling to herself. “I heard you, and then I saw you. You thought I did not see you.” She gave another tremble of laughter that lingered as it died.

  “She is not herself,” said Matthew. “Are you not going to have any dinner, Mother?”

  Harriet looked at him as if to speak, but remained with her expression fixed.

  Godfrey got up and went to her side, and taking her soup, began to feed her with it. She opened her mouth for a while, and then stopped and gazed into space. Her husband, distraught and acting mechanically, took a spoonful of the soup himself, and Harriet turned and leaned towards him, unwilling to be supplanted.

  “She is ill. We can’t have Buttermere coming in,” said Godfrey, continuing to move the spoon, and finding himself speaking as if his wife could not hear.

  “Buttermere!” said Harriet, looking with the smile of a conspirator at her husband.

  “We must carry her upstairs,” said Matthew. “You and I are the strongest, Father.”

  “Yes, yes, you and I,” said Godfrey, turning his arms as if finding relief in their competence. “Come, my darling, let us help you into this other chair. This will be better for carrying you. Yes, you will be safe in this.”

  Harriet looked at the chair, and then at the table.

  “We will have your dinner sent up to you,” said Gregory.

  “My dinner!” said Harriet, still looking at the table.

  “She is hungry. She has had almost nothing since breakfast,” said Jermyn.

  “Hungry!” said Harriet, as if at once touched and amused by the idea.

  “Yes, yes, my darling. We will get you upstairs, and Catherine will take care of you, and see you have what you need. You are not very well this evening. You will be better in your own room. You will be quite yourself in the morning.”

  Harriet smiled at the sensation of the chair, swayed her hands in time to its motion, and appeared regretful when she was set down. Godfrey saw her in bed, with her wants supplied, and returned to his children.

  “Well, you have waited for me; that is good of you,” he said in a lifeless tone. “You would not let your father have his dinner by himself. Mother seems to be getting on well with hers, considering. Well, I suppose we had better have Dufferin come and see her.”

  “It will be wiser to wait until to-morrow. He can judge better after the night. It is nothing urgent,” said Matthew.

  “You think it is nothing urgent, my boy? Not serious, do you mean? Well, you have the knowledge,” said his father. “We will be guided by you. Have you anything to say about it yourself?”

  “Noth
ing definite. Dufferin will know better. But I should think it may be serious. I meant it was not a case in which moments were significant.”

  Godfrey sat back in open depression.

  “You had better have something to eat, Father,” said Griselda. “We don’t want you ill as well as Mother.”

  “My dear child!” said Godfrey, rousing himself. “Well, I would a good deal rather be ill than have her ill. I can tell you that.”

  “You can’t make the exchange. It would be a case of both of you,” said Matthew.

  “And there will be a greater strain on you than on anyone, if that is so,” said Jermyn.

  “Jermyn!” exclaimed his father, and changed his tone. “My dear boy, I don’t throw doubt on your concern for a second. I know even from my own feelings how some people would be worked up. I mean I am an older and more stable man. All our feelings simply go without saying.”

  “Do you think she will sleep to-night, Matthew?” said Griselda.

  “He cannot say, my dear. We can’t any of us,” said Godfrey. “But I shall be able to in the morning. I know that. I shall be in every hour to see.”

  Godfrey sent word on the morrow that prayers would not be held, implying that concentration appeared unthinkable. He came to the breakfast table later than usual, and in a more deliberate manner, preoccupied to the exclusion of daily custom.

  “Well, does the opinion of all of you agree with mine this morning? I don’t think there is much change. I can’t say that I do.”

  “The absence of mind has become almost a trance,” said Matthew. “She seemed to be sleeping most of the night. I went in at three and at five. Gregory and Griselda thought she had slept. Unless she was just lying in a coma, with closed eyes. What did you think?”

  “Oh, well, I can hardly say. I was very exhausted,” said his father, pulling back his chair with his eyes on it.

  “What time in the night did you first see her?” said Matthew. “I met Gregory in her room at about three. I hadn’t been in until then.”

  “Yes, yes, I think you are right. I don’t think there is much difference between her state and a trance. A trance, a coma, a sort of stupor is what I should call it.”

  “I want to know how gradually the change came on.”

  “I can hardly say. I slept a very exhausted sleep. You think there is a definite change, then? That is what you would say?”

  “Undoubtedly, by now. But I should like to tell Dufferin when it began. What was the earliest hour you saw her?”

  “When I saw her just now, I thought there was a change certainly,” said Godfrey.

  Griselda let a sound of laughter escape.

  “I wish I had the spirit to laugh,” said her father, regarding her with knitted brows.

  “I know how you must wish it,” said Jermyn, “from being in the same situation. This is not an occasion when a night of unbroken rest makes for self-confidence in the morning.”

  “Oh, well, no, it is not. That is the truth about me,” said Godfrey, his voice breaking out towards fullness. “I slept like a man recovering from sickness, and that in effect was what I was doing. The strain of submitting to this cannot be supported easily. Every ounce of my energy was drained out. I hadn’t enough, after what I had been through, to raise my head from the pillow. It might have been me and not your mother in a trance, for all the difference there was.”

  “Unfortunately there was a fundamental difference,” said Matthew.

  “Unfortunately? Well, I don’t know what you mean by that. I should have thought you would be glad to have one of your parents in a fit state. How would you like to face what is on us now, without me at the helm, or somewhere in the background where I could be relied upon?”

  “As absolutely as anywhere,” said Matthew.

  “Yes, well, have it as you will. Somewhere in the background I said, didn’t I? It is a good thing that some of us had a good night, and are not in a state of nerves this morning. Well, what arrangements are you going to make, Matthew, since you are at the helm, and not I?”

  “I thought I would go after breakfast and bring Dufferin back.”

  “Yes, do, my dear boy. It is you at the helm indeed. If any two people can put things right for us, they are you and our friend, the doctor.”

  “We can only tell where they are wrong,” said Matthew.

  “Ah, well, that is half the battle,” said his father, “to know where things are wrong. To set them right is a small step after that.”

  “We could do a great deal if that were so,” said Matthew.

  “You are really worried, my son?”

  “Yes, I am, Father.”

  Godfrey rose and paced the room in simple, open dissatisfaction with fate. When the carriage returned, he gave a sigh that seemed to hold relief, since this feeling must now supervene.

  “Well, whatever is coming upon us, we shall know it now. Our time of suspense is over. And suspense is the worst part. Reality is as nothing to it. We can feel the worst is behind.”

  He conducted Dufferin and Matthew to Harriet’s room, and Griselda and the younger brothers remained below.

  “Who would you rather was ill, Mother or Father?” said Gregory, setting himself to pass the time. “You would all rather that Father was ill, and that you had a respite from Mother.”

  “That is near enough,” said Jermyn.

  “And I would rather it all came true of Father,” said Gregory. “So Mother is first.”

  “There is Matthew’s vote to be taken,” said Griselda.

  “Why does Matthew hate Mother?” said Gregory.

  “Well, you must know, as you know all,” said his brother.

  “Because she does not admire him,” said Gregory.

  “She does not admire any of us,” said Griselda.

  “She does,” said Gregory. “You and me. And Jermyn up to a point.”

  “She loves you the most,” said Griselda.

  “Love does not count like admiration,” said Gregory. “She loves Matthew. Children hate parents who love and do not admire them.”

  “But not parents children?” said Griselda.

  “Children never admire their parents,” said Gregory. “Parents have nothing deeper than love.”

  “You admire Mother,” said Jermyn.

  “Yes, and sometimes Father,” said Gregory. “But I am very unlike other people.”

  “Not as much as you think,” said Jermyn.

  “No, that could hardly be; but still very unlike,” said Gregory. “So unlike that I have not found these moments like hours. They were not like hours. They are over. I have helped you through them.”

  The three men came from the room above, Godfrey walking first.

  “Well, Doctor, we are here together prepared for what you have to say to us. We know that in the kindness of your heart you would spare us; but we ask you to tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Strong in the faith we share with her upstairs, we will bear ourselves worthily. You need not fear that the flicker of an eyelid will betray us.”

  “It is a mental breakdown,” said Dufferin. “Her heredity is against her. She got by degrees into a nervous state, and it went from bad to worse, as you all know. The climax came when she made up her mind to end her life. The decision in itself must have been a terrible strain, and she was not in a condition to bear a strain. Very few lives include one on that scale. Then the shock of realising that she had done it, and could not face it, was too much for her mind. It was at once the last and the worst thing. We cannot know what that moment meant. It is not in us to guess what it was.”

  “Is there hope that she may get well?” said Griselda.

  “Yes, great hope; I think it is almost a certainty. It will take time, possibly years, but I do not think it will be years. We will have her moved to a suitable place. It will be better for her, and fairer to her in the end. You will see that it will, when you have a chance to consider. The brain doctor will come down to-morrow, but he c
an only say the same.”

  “No, Doctor, no, I refuse to sanction it,” said Godfrey. “I will countenance nothing that throws any doubt upon my confidence in you. I have in you great, complete and perfect faith. I will not be a party to any slur cast upon it.”

  “It is no slur; it is the usual thing. Brain disease is not what 1 do the most at. You can show your faith by giving me a free hand. The other man will come and tell you what I have.”

  “He will, Doctor,” said Godfrey. “We shall not need to give him an ear, but you may do with us what you will. We bow to any decision of yours.”

  “Your mother is not suffering, you know,” said Dufferin, looking at Griselda’s face. “She will not suffer in body or mind, even when she begins to recover, as I believe she will. She will not know in what way she has been ill, until she is well. Her suffering is past. You saw and talked to her after that.”

  “You give us comfort, Doctor,” said Godfrey. “You speak to us heartening words. Your mission is to heal both bodies and minds. We are grateful to you for your healing of both.”

  “You are grateful rather soon,” said Dufferin, taking his leave. “And I shall not heal Harriet. I can do nothing, but I hope time and her own power of recovery can.”

  “We hope it with you, Doctor. And if there is no foundation for the hope, we are still thankful to you for giving it to us. Well, my children, if it were not for you, I should be a lonely man to-day. We must brace ourselves to meet without flinching what is sent to try us like steel in the flame.”

  “It is hard on Mother to be used as fuel,” said Jermyn.

  “Ah, yes, and she did not flinch,” said his father.

  “She did, I am thankful to say. It would be an impossible memory if she had not,” said Jermyn.

  “She is the most fortunate of any of us at the moment,” said Matthew.

  “She is, Matthew. That is our comfort,” said Godfrey.

  “I think she is the least fortunate,” said Griselda.

  “You speak the truth, Griselda. You of all of us have dared to speak it,” said her father. “My sons, we must not be behind. We must quit ourselves like men.”

  “How fearful if we should succeed!” said Gregory.