And then yet another thought beset him. What guarantee had he that Iris Wayne would welcome him to her birthday feast? He had thrown her kindness back into her face, had first accepted and then carelessly repudiated her friendship; and it was only too probable she had written him down as a casual and discourteous trifler with whom, in future, she desired to hold no intercourse.
The sunshiny day which the rest of the world found so beautiful was one long torment to Anstice. Restless, undecided, unhappy, he went about his work with set lips and a haggard face, and those of his patients who had lately found him improved to a new and attractive sociability revised their later impressions of him in favour of their first and less pleasing ones.
At five o'clock, acting on sudden impulse, he rang up Greengates and asked for Miss Wayne.
After a short delay she came, and as he heard her soft voice over the wire Anstice's face grew grim with controlled emotion.
"Is that you, Dr. Anstice?"
"Yes, Miss Wayne. I wanted to say—but first, may I wish you—many happy returns of your birthday?"
"Thanks very much." Straining his ears to catch every inflection in her voice, Anstice thought he detected a note of coldness. "By the way, were those beautiful sweet-peas from you—the ones that came at twelve o'clock to-day?"
"I sent them, yes." So much, at least, he had permitted himself to do.
"They were lovely—thank you so much for them." Iris spoke with a trifle more warmth, and for a moment Anstice faltered in his purpose. "You are coming to dinner presently, aren't you? Seven o'clock, because of the dance."
"Miss Wayne, I'm sorry ..." the lie almost choked him, but he hurried on, "... I can't get over to Greengates in time for dinner. I—I have a call—into the country—and can't get back before eight or nine."
"Oh!" For a moment Iris was silent, and to the man at the other end of the wire it seemed an eternity before she spoke again. Then: "I'm sorry," said Iris gently. "But you will come to the dance afterwards?"
For a second Anstice wavered. It would be wiser to refuse, to allege uncertainty, at least, to leave himself a loophole of escape did he find it impossible to trust himself sufficiently to go. He opened his lips to tell her he feared it might be difficult to get away, to prepare her for his probable absence; and then:
"Of course I will come to the dance," he said steadily. "I would not miss it for anything in the world!"
And he rang off hastily, fearing what he might be tempted to say if the conversation were allowed to continue another moment.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when Anstice entered the hall of Greengates that night; and by that time dancing was in full swing.
By an irony of Fate he had been called out when just on the point of starting, and had obeyed the summons reluctantly enough.
The fact that his importunate patient was a tiny girl who was gasping her baby life away in convulsions changed his reluctance into an energetic desire to save the pretty little creature's life at any cost; but all his skill was of no avail, and an hour after he entered the house the child died.
Even then he could not find it in his heart to hurry away. The baby's parents, who were young and sociable people, had been, like himself, invited to the dance at Greengates—had, indeed, been ready to start when the child was taken ill; and the contrast between the young mother's frantic grief and her glittering ball-gown and jewels struck Anstice as an almost unendurable irony.
When at last he was able to leave the stricken house, having done all in his power to lighten the horror of the dreary hour, he was in no mood for gaiety, and for a few moments he meditated sending a message to say he was, after all, unable to be present at the dance.
Then the vision of Iris rose again before his eyes, and immediately everything else faded from his world, and he hastened to Greengates, arriving just as the clock struck eleven.
He saw her the moment he entered the room after greeting Sir Richard and Lady Laura in the hall. She was dancing with Cheniston, and Anstice had never seen her look more radiant.
She was wearing the very shimmering white frock in which he had pictured her, a filmy chiffon thing which set off her youthful beauty to its highest perfection; and the pearls which lay on her milky throat, the satin slippers which cased her slender feet, the bunch of lilies-of-the valley at her breast, were details in so charming a picture that others besides Anstice found her distractingly pretty to-night.
And as he noted her happy look, the air of serene content with which she yielded her slim form to her partner's guidance, the light in the grey eyes which smiled into Cheniston's face, Anstice's heart gave one bitter throb and then lay heavy as a stone in his breast.
He hardly doubted that she was won already; and in Cheniston's proud and assured bearing he thought he read the story of that winning.
As he stood against the wall, unconscious of the curious glances directed towards him, the music ceased, and the dancers came pouring out of the ballroom to seek the fresher air without.
Passing him on her partner's arm, Iris suddenly withdrew her hand and turned to greet the late comer.
"Dr. Anstice!" It seemed as though her inward happiness must needs find an outlet, so radiant was the smile with which she greeted him. "You have really come! I thought you had failed us after all."
"No—I was sent for, at the last moment." Something in his strained tone seemed to startle the girl, for her eyes dilated, and with an effort Anstice spoke more lightly. "I couldn't get away, Miss Wayne, but you won't visit my misfortunes on my head, will you? You promised me some dances——"
"One has had to go." She looked down at her card. "I kept the fifth for you, but you may have the next if you like. I did not engage myself for that, thinking"—she paused, then smiled at him frankly—"thinking you might come after all."
Scarcely knowing what he did Anstice made some rejoinder; and then Cheniston, who had turned away for a moment, appeared to observe Anstice for the first time, and giving him a nod said rather curtly:
"Evening, Anstice; you've got here then, after all? Well, Iris, shall we go and get cool after that energetic waltz?"
They drifted out into the hall; and watching them go Anstice told himself again that Cheniston had won the day.
"Shall we sit out, Dr. Anstice?" He thought Iris looked at him rather strangely. "I ... I am rather tired—and hot—but still——"
"Let us sit out by all means, Miss Wayne. Shall we go into the conservatory? It is quite cool there—and quiet."
She agreed at once; and two minutes later he found her a seat in a corner beneath a big overshadowing palm.
Now that she was beside him he felt his self-control failing him. She was so pretty in her white gown with the pearls on her neck and the delicate moonstones dangling in her little ears....
"Dr. Anstice"—it was the girl who broke the silence—"do you know you have treated us very badly of late? You have never been near us for weeks, and our tennis match has not been decided after all!"
"I know I've behaved disgracefully"—his voice shook, and she half regretted her impulsive words—"but—well, I'm not exactly a free agent, Miss Wayne."
"No, I suppose a doctor rarely is," she answered thoughtfully; and he did not correct her misapprehension of his meaning.
"But I don't want you to think me ungrateful for your kindness." So much, at least, he might say. "If I have appeared discourteous, please believe that in my heart I have always fully appreciated your goodness—and that of your father."
She said nothing for a moment, looking down at her satin slippers absently; and he did not attempt to interrupt her reverie.
Then, with rather startling irrelevance, she said slowly:
"Dr. Anstice, have you ever been in Egypt? I know you have travelled a lot, and I thought perhaps——"
"No." Suddenly at this apparently innocent question a foreboding of evil fell on Anstice's soul with a crushing weight. "As you say, I have travelled a good deal; but somehow I have never visited Egypt. Why do you ask?"
"Because——" For yet another moment Iris hesitated, as though uncertain whether or no to proceed. And then, suddenly, she turned to face him with something in her eyes which Anstice could not fathom. "I asked because it is possible I may go to live in Egypt some day."
"I see," said Anstice very quietly. "You mean—Miss Wayne, I won't pretend to misunderstand you—you mean that Cheniston has asked you to marry him, and you have said yes."
Now the rosy colour flooded the girl's face until even her ears were pink; but her grey eyes met his frankly, and when she spoke her voice rang happily.
"You've guessed my secret very quickly," she said, relieved unconsciously by his calm manner and friendly tone. "Yes. Mr. Cheniston asked me to marry him an hour ago, and I agreed. And so, as he wants to be married almost at once, I shall have to prepare myself to live in Egypt, for a time at least."
"I don't think you need dread the prospect," he said, and his voice was creditably steady, though the world seemed to be crashing down in ruins around him. "Egypt must be a wonderfully fascinating country, and nowadays one doesn't look upon it as a land of exile. When do you think you will be going, Miss Wayne?"
"Well, Bruce has to be back in November," she said, "so if we are really to be married first"—again the rosy colour flooded her face—"it doesn't give me much time to get ready."
"No. I suppose I ought to congratulate you." He was beginning to feel he could not bear this torture much longer. "At least—it is Cheniston who is to be congratulated. But you—I can only wish you all possible happiness. Idowish it—from the bottom of my heart."
He held out his hand and she put her slender fingers into it. For just the fraction of a second longer than convention required he held them in his clasp; then he laid her hand down gently on her filmy chiffon knee.
"Miss Wayne"—he spoke rather hoarsely—"I wonder if you will think me a bear if I run away after this dance? I would not have missed these few minutes with you for anything the world might offer me; but somehow I am not in tune with gaiety to-night."
She shot a quick glance at his haggard face; and even in the midst of her own happy excitement she felt a vivid impulse of sympathy.
"Dr. Anstice, I'm so sorry." Just for an instant she laid her fingers gently on his arm; and the light touch made him wince. "You said when you came in that you had been detained, and you looked so serious I thought it must have been something dreadful which had kept you. I don't wonder you find all this"—she waved her small white fan comprehensively round—"jars upon you—now."
"Yes," he said, snatching at the opening she gave him, and longing only for the moment when he might say good-bye and leave her adorable, maddening presence. "It jars, as you say—not because it isn't all delightful and inspiring in itself, but because"—suddenly he felt an inexplicably savage desire to hurt her, as a man in pain may seek to wound his tenderest nurse—"because not many miles away from here there's a poor mother weeping, like Rachel, for her child, and refusing to be comforted."
She turned pale, and he felt like a murderer as he watched the light die out of her big grey eyes.
"A child—the child you went to see—it died?"
"Yes. She was just a year old—and their only child."
Now, to his remorse, he saw that she was crying; and instantly the cruel impulse died out of his heart and a wild desire to comfort her took its place.
"Miss Wayne, for God's sake don't cry! I had no right to tell you—it was brutal, unpardonable of me to cloud your happiness at such a moment as this. I ... I've no excuse to offer—none, at least, that you could understand—but it makes me feel the meanest criminal alive to see you cry!"
No woman could have withstood the genuine remorse in his tone; and Iris dabbed her eyes with a little lacy handkerchief and smiled forgiveness rather tremulously.
"Don't reproach yourself, Dr. Anstice. I ... I think I'm rather foolish to-night. And at any rate"—perhaps after all she had divined the soreness which lay beneath his spoken congratulations—"I'm sure of one thing—you did your best to comfort the poor mother."
"Thank you for that, at least," he said; and then, in a different key: "You won't think me rude if I leave after this?"
"Of course not." Suddenly Iris rose, and Anstice, surprised, followed her example. "Dr. Anstice, if you don't mind I'll ask you to take me back now. I think"—she smiled rather shyly—"I think I must just go and bathe my eyes. I don't want any one to ask inconvenient questions!"
Filled with anger against himself Anstice acquiesced at once; and in the hall they parted, Iris speeding upstairs to her room in search of water and Eau de Cologne with which to repair the ravages his heartless speech had caused.
At the last came a consolatory moment.
"Dr. Anstice." She held out her hand once more. "You are the only person—except my father—who knows what has happened to-night. Somehow I wanted to tell you because"—she coloured faintly, and her eyes dropped for a second—"because I think you and I are—really—friends in spite of everything."
"Thank you, Miss Wayne." His tone was so low she could barely catch the words. "Believe me, I value your friendship above everything else in the world."
He wrung her hand hard; and as she left him with a last fleeting smile he turned and found himself face to face with Bruce Cheniston.
At that moment the hall was empty; and before the other man could speak Anstice said quickly:
"So you've won the day, Cheniston. Well, congratulations—though God knows I wish with all my heart that you had failed."
"Thanks." Cheniston ignored the latter half of the sentence with a smile Anstice felt to be insolent. "So Miss Wayne told you? I had hoped to be the first to give you the information."
"Miss Wayne told me, yes," said Anstice, taking his hat and coat from the chair where he had thrown them on his late entrance, and turning towards the door. "And I don't know that there is anything more to be said between us. Oh, yes, there is, though. One word, Cheniston." The other man had followed him to the door and now stood on the steps looking out into the fragrant July night. "I think that in all fairness you will now agree that I have paid my debt to you; wiped it out to the uttermost farthing. In future"—turning on the lowest stop he faced the man who stood above him, and in his face was a look which no other human being had ever seen there—"in future we are quits, you and I. The debt is paid in full."
And before Bruce Cheniston could frame any reply to his words Anstice turned away and was lost in the soft summer darkness.
On the day before that fixed for Iris Wayne's wedding a large garden party was held at Greengates; and fortunately the late September afternoon was all that could be desired in regard to sunshine and soft breezes.
The wedding itself was to be a comparatively quiet affair, only a score or two of intimate friends and relations being invited to the house after the ceremony; but Lady Laura had ordained that on the previous day half the countryside was to be entertained; and although there were some people who did not altogether approve of the match—for Bruce Cheniston was, after all, the brother of the notorious Mrs. Carstairs—the majority were only too ready to follow Sir Richard Wayne's lead and extend a hand of friendship to Miss Wayne's prospective bridegroom.
Anstice had received an invitation to both ceremonies, and had accepted, provisionally, for each; but in his heart he knew that no power on earth could induce him to see Iris Wayne married to another man; and although he duly appeared at Greengates while the garden party was in full swing he only remained there a brief half-hour.
As he was bidding Lady Laura good-bye, Iris, with whom he had as yet only exchanged a couple of words, came up to him with a friendly little smile on her lips.
"Are you leaving us already, Dr. Anstice? I don't believe you've even had a cup of tea—or what Daddy calls a peg. Have you?"
"Yes, thanks, Miss Wayne." He lied so convincingly that the girl believed him. "I'm just off again—you must excuse me, but you know my time is not my own."
"No." He thought she looked a little pale this afternoon. "I quite understand, and I think it is very nice of you to come at all. You are coming to-morrow?"
"I hope so." Again he lied, and something in the frank eyes which were raised to his made him ashamed of his mendacity. "Of course—it's possible I may be prevented, but in any case, Miss Wayne, please remember my best wishes will be yours all day."
As though reminded of something she spoke impulsively.
"Dr. Anstice, I've never thanked you—except in a note—for your lovely present. It is really quite the most uncommon one I have had, and I shall value it immensely."
"I am glad you like it," he said. He had sent her a pair of ancient Chinese vases which his father had received many years ago from the grateful wife of a mandarin to whom he had once rendered a service. "I hardly knew what to send you, and then I remembered you once said you liked curios."
"I do—and these are so lovely." As she stood talking to him in the sunlight Anstice told himself that this was really his farewell to the girl he had known and loved, and his eyes could hardly leave her adorable face. The next time they met—if Fate ordained that they should meet again—she would be Bruce Cheniston's wife; and believing as he did that this would be their last meeting as man and maid, Anstice took the hand she held out to him with a very sore heart.
"Good-bye, Miss Wayne." Just for a moment he hesitated, feeling that he could not bear to let her go like this; and the girl, puzzled by his manner, waited rather uneasily, her hand in his. Then he gave her fingers a last clasp, wringing them unconsciously hard, and let them go.
"Good-bye, Dr. Anstice." Standing as she did on the threshold of a new life, face to face with a mystery she dreaded, yet was prepared, to fathom, perhaps Iris' perceptions were a little quickened. All at once she saw that this man looked upon her with different eyes from the other men she knew; and the memory of her strange fancy earlier in the summer gave her the key suddenly to his rather curious manner of bidding her farewell.
With a foolish, but purely womanly, impulse of compassion, she spoke again, laying her hand for a second on his arm with a friendliness which no man could have misunderstood.
"No, Dr. Anstice. Not good-bye. We shall meet again to-morrow, at any rate; so let us just say—au revoir!"
The kind little hand, the friendly words, almost broke down Anstice's self-control.
With a huge effort he kept his voice steady; but his face was grey as he answered her.
"If you wish, Miss Wayne—from the bottom of my heart let it be—only—au revoir!"
And Fate, who foresaw in what wise their next meeting should take place, probably chuckled to herself, like the malignant lady she can be, at this parting between the two who might have been lovers but for a miscalculated shot in the days gone by.
When Anstice had finished his day's work it was barely seven o'clock. Fortunately for him he had no very serious cases on his hands just now, and there was no need, save in the event of an urgent call, for him to go out again when he had eaten his solitary dinner.
He was thankful for the respite, for the strain of the last few weeks, the weeks of Iris' engagement, had been severe; and mind and body were alike overtasked and weary. For several days he had suffered from a severe neuralgic headache, and to-night the torture in head and eyes threatened to overwhelm him.
For three or four nights he had hardly slept; and on more than one occasion he had thought, with a queer, detached interest, of the relief which morphia might bring to his tormented nerves; but with the thought came another—the picture of Iris Wayne who had bidden him remember that this was not the way out of the tragic muddle into which his life had been plunged by his own action.
She had believed him when he told her he would not again deliver himself into bondage to the fatal drug, and although he had not given her his promise—foreseeing even then the possibility of this black hour—he had meant, at the moment, to turn his back for ever on the seductive thing which whispers such sweet, such deliriously fatal promises to the man in the clutch of any agony he does not know how to bear.
So, although on the last two or three occasions he had not won the victory without a struggle, Anstice had managed to win through without lowering his flag; but to-night he began to wonder whether after all it were worth while waging the unequal war any longer.
He had parted from Iris Wayne, as he thought, for ever. As the wife of Bruce Cheniston he must henceforward regard her; and although he was no saint, to covet his neighbour's wife was not compatible with Anstice's code of decency.
He might love her still—at this moment he thought he knew that he would love her always—but for all practical purposes their friendship, with all its privileges and its obligations, was at an end. And this being so, why should he hesitate to gain, if he might, relief from this agony of mind and body by the help of the drug he had hitherto forsworn?
It is always hard on a man when to physical anguish is added agony of mind, since in that dual partnership of pain no help may be rendered either by its complementary part; and it does not need a physician to know that such help given by the one to the other is frequently a ruling factor in the recovery of the sick body or mind. And to-night Anstice was enduring a physical and mental suffering which taxed mind and body to their utmost limits, and absolutely precluded the possibility of any helpful reaction one upon the other.
His eyeballs felt as though they were being pierced by red-hot needles; while the stabbing pain in his head increased every moment. Had he witnessed such suffering in another he would instantly have set about alleviating it so far as his skill might allow; but he told himself that there was only one effectual remedy for him and that was forbidden him by his implied promise to Iris Wayne. And so he sat on in a corner of the couch in his dim and shadowy room, and endured the excruciating pain as best he might.
The house was very quiet, and suddenly he remembered that the servants were out, witnessing the fireworks which Sir Richard had provided in the park of Greengates for the entertainment of the village on the eve of his daughter's wedding.
They had asked permission to go, and he had granted it readily enough; and now he was grateful for the peace and tranquillity which their absence engendered in the dark and quiet house.
Dimmer and more gloomy grew the room in which he sat—his consulting-room, chosen to-night for its long window open to the garden without. More and more thickly clustered the shadows round him as he sat half-sunk in a corner of the big leather couch. Once an owl hooted in the tall trees outside the house, and the strange, melancholy note seemed a fit accompaniment to the eerie stillness of the night.
Worse and ever more hard to bear grew the fierce throbbing in his head and eyes, but his wretchedness of mind ran a good race with his bodily suffering; and had he been asked, suddenly, the nature of the pain which tormented him he would have found it hard to answer immediately.
Only as the quiet hours wore on he began to feel that the limit of his endurance was almost reached. He told himself that even Iris herself would not willingly sanction such suffering as his had now become. In all the world he desired only one boon—oblivion, unconsciousness, rest from this state of being which was surely unendurable; and as a more exquisitely painful throb of anguish shot through his head he plunged his hand into his breast-pocket in search of a certain little case which was generally to be found there during his day's round.
But he remembered, with a sudden keen disappointment, that he had changed his coat on returning home to dinner, and the means of alleviation which he sought were not at hand.
He half rose, intending to go in search of the thing he wanted; but the effort of moving was too much, and he sank back again with an irritable groan and prepared to endure still more of this misery.
Next he thought he would try the effect of a cigarette, but the matches were not on the table before him. That obstacle, however, need not be insurmountable, for in a drawer at his elbow he kept a supply, and moving cautiously, for every movement set his nerves jangling, he turned on the couch and opened the drawer to seek the matches which should be there.
He found them immediately, and was in the act of taking one from the box when his eye fell on a small package which somehow roused a strange feeling of interest in his pain-shrouded mind.
It seemed familiar—at least he thought he remembered handling it before, and by a queer twist of memory he thought of Mrs. Carstairs as he took up the mysterious little parcel and turned it about in his hands.
Yet his throbbing brain would not allow him to feel certain what was really inside the packet, and with a sudden access of nervous irritation he broke the seal which held its contents a mystery, and tore off the enwrapping papers.
And as he realized what it was that the paper had hidden he uttered an exclamation in which surprise and dismay and relief were oddly blended.
In his hand he held a box containing a hypodermic syringe and a supply of morphia, and now he remembered how Mrs. Carstairs had told him of her purchase of the same, and her subsequent decision to let the insidious thing alone. She had given him the packet without apparent reluctance, and as his own words, "I shan't be tempted to steal yours for my private use," came flashing back to his memory he smiled, rather cynically, to himself.
"If I believed in signs and omens I should take this as an unmistakable invitation to me to hesitate no longer." He fingered the syringe thoughtfully. "And upon my soul I don't see why I shouldn't accept it as a sign. In any case"—all the pent-up bitterness of his soul found vent in the words—"in future what I do can have no interest for Iris Cheniston!"
As if the sound of the name, premature as it was, had put the finishing touch to his reckless cynicism, he hesitated no longer.
With an almost savage gesture he struck a match and lighted a candle on his writing-table; and as the little yellow flame sprang up, and strove, vainly, to enlighten the encompassing gloom, he set about his preparations with a sudden energy in striking contrast with his previous lethargy.
When all was ready there came a last second of hesitation. With the syringe in his hand, his arm bared, he paused, and for a last poignant moment Iris' face rose before him in the flickering light. But now her eyes had no power to move him from his purpose. Rather they maddened him with their steadfast radiance, and with a muttered oath he looked aside from that appealing vision and turned the key, recklessly, in the door which led to the Paradise of Fools.
Nearly an hour later the telephone bell rang, sharply, insistently in the hall. It went on ringing, again and again, a curiously vital sound in the quiet house; but Anstice did not hear it, and at length the ringing ceased.
It was nearly half an hour later when another bell rang, this time the bell of the front door; but again no answer came to the imperative summons. And now the bell rang on, so continuously, so persistently, that at last its sound penetrated the dulled hearing of the man who huddled in a corner of the big couch, mind and body alike dazed and incapable of making any effort to understand the meaning of this oddly insistent noise.
He was only conscious of a desire for it to cease; of a longing, not sufficiently vivid to be acute, but the strongest emotion of which he was at the moment capable, for a return to the silence which had hitherto prevailed; and although the noise disturbed and angered him it never occurred to him that to answer the summons would be the best way of ending the irritating sound.
So that bell too went unanswered; and in due course it also ceased to ring.
But that was not to be the end.
Dimly he heard the sound of voices, of footsteps in the hall, of the striking of a match and the hissing of the gas. Then there was a confused noise which was like and yet unlike a rapping on the panels of the door of the room in which he sat; but he felt no inclination whatever to move or make any response; and even when at length the door itself opened, slowly and tentatively, he merely looked up with languid curiosity to see what these phenomena might imply.
And in the doorway stood Iris Wayne, her face very pale, one hand holding a flimsy scarf about her, with Bruce Cheniston by her side.
Chloe Carstairs had not been among the guests at Greengates that afternoon. In vain had Sir Richard and Lady Laura invited her, in vain had Iris added her entreaties. On this point Chloe was adamant, and although her brother argued with her for an hour or more on the advisability of making her reappearance in Littlefield society under the aegis of the Waynes, she merely shook her head with an inscrutable smile.
"If I cared to re-enter Littlefield society," she said calmly, "I should have done so long ago. But I am really so indifferent to those people that I have no desire to meet them, even as a guest at Greengates."
"I didn't suppose you wanted to meet them—for your own sake," retorted her brother, "for a duller and more stupid set of people were never born; but as Iris is to be your sister-in-law I think you might stretch a point and go with me to Greengates this afternoon."
But Chloe shook her head.
"No, Bruce. I am sorry to disappoint you, but it cannot be done. As you know, I am fond of Iris"—knowing his sister Bruce was quite satisfied with this moderate expression of her affection—"but I won't go to Greengates to-day, nor to the wedding to-morrow. If you like to bring Iris down to say good-bye this evening when all the people are gone I shall like to see her."
"All right." Bruce gave up the contest. "I'm staying on—quietly—to dinner; but I'll bring her down for half an hour afterwards."
"Very well." Chloe rose from the breakfast-table as she spoke, and sauntered to the window, from whence she looked over the pretty garden with appreciative eyes. "It is lucky the weather is so beautiful—Greengates will look at its best on a day like this."
And Bruce agreed heartily as he stepped on to the lawn to enjoy his after-breakfast pipe.
True to his promise Bruce motored hisfiancéeover to Cherry Orchard in the gloaming of the September evening, after a somewhat protracted argument with Lady Laura, whose sense of propriety was, so she averred, outraged by the project.
Sir Richard, however, to whom the loss of his only daughter was a deep though hidden grief, gave his consent readily enough when he saw that Iris really wished to bid her friend good-bye; and making Bruce promise to bring her back in good time he himself went to the door to pack them safely into the motor.
"Take care of her, Bruce—she is very precious to me!" He laid his hand on the young man's arm, and his voice held an appeal which Bruce involuntarily answered.
"Trust me, sir!" There was a note of rather unusual feeling in his tone. "She can't be more precious to you than she is to me!"
And with the words he got his car in motion and glided away down the dusky, scented avenue beneath the tall trees which had not, as yet, put off their summer tints for their autumn livery of scarlet and gold.
Somehow they did not talk much as they sped on through the cool, perfumed night. Both, indeed, felt a sense of shyness in each other's company on this last evening; and it was with something like relief that they realized they were at Cherry Orchard in less time than they generally allowed for the little journey.
The hall door, as usual, stood hospitably open; but there was no sign of Chloe, waiting for them with her gracious welcome; and as they crossed the threshold both felt instinctively that something was wrong.
A moment later their suspicions were confirmed, for Hagyard, the manservant, who adored both his mistress and her small daughter, came forward to meet them with an air of relief which did not conceal the anxiety in his whole bearing.
"Mr. Cheniston—sir—there's been an accident—Miss Cherry—she's burnt——"
"Burnt!" Iris and Bruce echoed the word simultaneously; and the man hurried on.
"Yes, sir, yes, miss—Miss Cherry got playing with matches—Tochatti left her alone for a moment when she did not ought to have done"—in his distress his usual correctness of speech and deportment fell away from Hagyard, leaving him a mere human man—"and Miss Cherry's dress—a little flimsy bit of muslin it was, caught fire, and before it was put out she'd got burned——"
"Where is Mrs. Carstairs?"
"Upstairs with Miss Cherry, sir. We've been ringing up the doctor—but we can't get no answer——"
Bruce cut him short without ceremony.
"Come, Iris, let's see what's to be done. We can go ourselves and fetch the doctor, anyway."
Together they ran up the broad staircase, and Bruce led the way to Cherry's little room, where, as he guessed, the child was lying.
As they entered Chloe Carstairs looked round; and her eyes appeared almost black, so dilated were the pupils.
"Bruce!" Her deep voice held a note of relief. "You have come at last—now perhaps we can do something for the child."
"Is she badly burnt?" Iris approached softly and stood looking down at the moaning little figure in the bed.
"Yes." Chloe's manner was impressive by reason of its very quietness. "She is—very badly burnt, and until the doctor comes we can do so little...."
"You have donesomethingfor her?"
"Oh, yes—Tochatti and I have done all we can, but"—for a second Chloe's face quivered—"we can't do anything more, and I'm afraid if something isn't done soon——"
The child on the bed gave a sudden convulsive cry, and Chloe's white face grew still paler.
"You see—she's in horrible pain, and—oh, why doesn't the doctor come? We've rung up again and again, and they've never answered!"
"Shall we go and fetch him, Chloe? The car's here, and we'll bring him back in no time!" He turned to Iris. "You'll come?"
She hesitated.
"Won't you go—and I'll stay here?"
Chloe looked up at that.
"No, Iris. I don't want you to stay—yet. Go with Bruce, and when you come back you shall stay—if you will."
"Very well." Iris deemed it best to do as she was requested. "We will go—immediately—we shall soon be back."
They ran downstairs together as swiftly as they had run up a few minutes earlier; and in an incredibly short space of time the car was flying through the sweet night air once more.
Arriving at the Gables they could win no response to their ringing; but it was imperative they should gain an entrance; and so it came about that the first time Iris entered Anstice's house she entered it unheralded, and unwelcomed by any friendly greeting.
So, too, it came about that when Anstice at last awoke to the fact that there were other human beings in the house beside himself he realized, with a pang of consternation and amazement sufficiently sharp to pierce even through the fog which clouded his spirit, that one of his uninvited guests was the girl from whom, a few short hours earlier, he had parted, as he thought, for ever.
He half rose from the couch on which he crouched, and stared at the advancing figures with haunted eyes.
"I ... I ..." His voice, husky, uncertain, brought both his visitors to a halt; and for a wild moment he fancied that after all they were no real beings, only more than usually vivid shadows, projected visions from the whirling phantasmagoria of his brain. The light behind them, streaming in through the open door, confused him, made him feel as though this were all a trick of the nerves, a kind of chaotic nightmare; and with a muttered curse at his own folly in imagining for one moment that Iris Wayne herself stood before him, he fell back on the couch and closed his aching eyes wearily.
"Anstice—I say, you're wanted—badly—at Cherry Orchard." Surely that was Bruce Cheniston's voice which beat upon his ears until it reached his inner sense. Yet what was that he was saying ... something about an accident ... to Cherry ... but the time of cherries was over ... surely now the summer was dead ... he was cold, bitterly cold, the fire must be out, his teeth were chattering ... there was a mist before his eyes....
"Dr. Anstice, is anything the matter? Are you ill?"
That voice belonged to no one on earth but Iris Wayne, yet that insubstantial grey shadow which seemed to speak was only another ghost, a figment of his overwrought brain. He wished—how he wished—that these ghosts would leave him, would return to the haunted place whence they came and allow him to sink once more into the blessed oblivion from which they called him with their thin, far-away voices....
"It's no use, Iris!" Cheniston spoke abruptly, puzzled by the other man's strange behaviour, to which as yet he could assign no cause. "The man's asleep—or dazed—or—or"—suddenly a suspicion swept into his brain—"or perhaps there's a less creditable cause for this extraordinary behaviour."
"What do you mean, Bruce?" Iris' grey eyes dilated and her face blanched. "Is he—ill—or——"
"I am not—ill, Miss Wayne." Somehow he had caught her words, her dear voice had penetrated through the fog which enveloped his senses. "Don't, please, be afraid.... I ... I am only ..."
"Anyway you're not fit to speak to a lady," cut in Cheniston incisively. "We came to fetch you to Cherry Orchard; there's been on accident, my little niece is badly hurt and Mrs. Carstairs wanted you—but it's evident you're not in a fit state to come...."
Once more the fog lifted for a moment; and although he felt everything to be whirling round him Anstice rose unsteadily to his feet and faced his accuser.
Through the open door the light streamed on to his haggard face; and as she saw the ravages which suffering had wrought in him Iris uttered an exclamation.
"Don't be afraid, Miss Wayne." He could only, it seemed, repeat himself. "I ... I didn't expect any one coming here." He spoke slowly, a pause between each word. "I ... if there's anything—I can do——"
"There isn't—unless you can pull yourself together sufficiently to come to Cherry Orchard," said Cheniston coldly. "And judging from your appearance you can't do that."
The contempt in his voice stung Anstice momentarily into self-defence.
"What are you implying?" He spoke a little more clearly now, "I ... I believe after all I'm ill—but——"
At that moment Bruce's eyes, roving here and there, caught sight of a small decanter of brandy which stood on the table at his elbow. As a matter of fact it had been brought there for a patient whose nerves had failed him, earlier in the day, on hearing what practically amounted to a sentence of death; but to Cheniston the innocent object appeared as the confirmation of his suspicions, and his lip curled.
"Come along, Iris." His disdain was cruel. "We must go and find some one else—some one who hasn't fuddled his wits like our friend here."
Iris' eyes, following his, had seen the brandy; and in a flash of insight she knew what he meant. But before she could speak, could utter the denial which trembled on her lips, Anstice himself interposed.
"You are mistaken, Cheniston." He still spoke haltingly, but his eyes looked less dim than they had done a moment ago. "That"—he pointed to the decanter—"is not my particular vice. I confess I am not myself to-night; and I fear I'm not capable of attending any one for the present; but it is not brandy which is responsible, I assure you of that."
He stopped, feeling suddenly that the effort of speech was too much for him. A terrible dizziness was overwhelming him ... he had only one desire on earth, that Iris Wayne would leave him, that he might sink down on to the couch again, and let the fathomless sea which was surging round him drown his soul and senses in its rolling flood....
Yet by a great effort he stood upright, steadying himself by the edge of the table; and through all his mental and physical misery he saw Iris' grey eyes fixed upon his face with a great pity in their depths.
"Dr. Anstice"—regardless of Bruce's presence she took up the hypodermic syringe which lay on the table, gleaming in a strong beam of light which streamed through the open door—"you have been tryingthisway out—again?"
Her voice, which held no condemnation, only an overwhelming compassion, drove back for a moment those cruel waves which surged around him; and when he answered her his voice was almost steady.
"Yes, Miss Wayne. I ... I could find no other way, and so—I took this one."
Iris placed the syringe down gently on the table, and her eyes were full of tears.
"Dr. Anstice, I'm sorry," she said in a low tone; and the pity in her voice nearly broke his heart.
"Miss Wayne—I——"
What he would have said she never knew; for Bruce Cheniston broke in angrily, annoyed by a scene to which he held no key.
"Look here, Iris, we mustn't waste time. Cherry's badly hurt, and since Dr. Anstice can't come someone else must be found. Come along, we'll be off and find another doctor—one who can be relied upon."
The mists were closing in on Anstice once more, the hungry sea which billowed round him threatened to engulf him body and soul. Yet he thought he heard Iris striving to silence Cheniston's cruel words, he could have sworn he saw her eyes, big with tears, shining through the mist which kept him from her; and with a mental effort which turned him cold he spoke once more to her before she left him.
"Miss Wayne ... please don't condemn me altogether ... I did not give in at once ... but this seemed—before God, I thought it was the only way out—to-night...."
And then the miracle happened. Regardless of the man who stood fuming by her side, Iris laid her soft hand on Anstice's arm and spoke one last gentle word.
"Dr. Anstice, I believe you—and good-bye! But—oh, do, do remember—for my sake let me ask you to remember that this isnotthe true way out!"
And then, as Cheniston took her arm impatiently to lead her away, she smiled through the tears which threatened to blind her, and went out from his presence without one reproachful word.
When she had gone he stood gazing after her for a long moment, and the look in his face would have broken the heart of a woman who had loved him. Then, with a despairing feeling that now nothing mattered in all the world, he sank down again on the couch and let the flood overwhelm him as it would.
As the clocks were striking ten on the following morning, the morning of Iris Wayne's wedding day, Anstice came slowly down the garden to where his car waited by the gate.
It was a glorious September morning, the whole world bathed in a flood of golden sunshine, and the soft, warm air was heavy with the scent of sweet-peas, of stocks, of the hundred and one fragrant flowers which deck the late summer days. Away over the fields hung an enchanting blue haze which promised yet greater heat when it too should have dissolved before the mellow rays of the sun; and if there be any truth in the old saw that happy is the portion of the bride on whom the sun shall shine, then truly the lot of Iris Wayne should be a happy one.
But in Anstice's face there was no reflected sunshine on this auspicious morning. Rather did he look incredibly haggard and worn, and his colourless lips and purple-shadowed eyes were in strangest contrast to the smiling face of Nature.
It was only by a very strong effort of will that Anstice had driven himself forth to embark upon his day's work. The horrible night through which he had passed had left traces on both body and soul; and the thought of that which was to happen to-day, the thought of the ceremony in the little flower-decked church by which the girl he adored would be given as wife to another man was nothing short of torture to this man who loved her.
He would have given half he possessed to be able to blot out this day from his calendar—to pass the whole of it in a state of oblivion, of forgetfulness, to cheat life of its fiercest suffering for a few hours at least; but Iris herself blocked the way to that last indulgence. She had bidden him remember—for her sake—that the way he had taken was not in truth the way out; and although every nerve in his body cried out for relief, nothing in the world could have persuaded him to mar Iris' wedding-day by an act whose commission would have grieved her had she known of it.
And since to sit at home, brooding over the dimly-remembered events of the preceding night, would be fatal, there was nothing for it but to go out and strive to forget his own mental agony in an attempt to alleviate the physical suffering of those who trusted him to relieve their bodily woes at least.
He was about to enter his car when he heard the hoot of a motor-horn behind him; and turning round, one foot on the step, saw his friendly rival, Dr. Willows, driving up to intercept him.
"Hallo, Anstice, glad you're not out. I wanted to see you."
Anstice moved forward to meet him, but Dr. Willows, an agile little man of middle age, hopped out of his car, and taking Anstice's arm moved with him out of ear-shot of the waiting chauffeur.
"Well?" Anstice's voice was not inviting.
"It's about that affair at Cherry Orchard." Involuntarily Anstice's arm stiffened, and the other man dropped it as he went on speaking. "I was called in last night, and hearing you were ill—by the way, are you better now?" He broke off abruptly and peered into Anstice's face with disconcerting keenness.
"Quite, thanks. It was only a temporary indisposition," returned Anstice coldly; and Dr. Willows relaxed his gaze.
"Glad to hear it—though you look pretty seedy this morning. You know you really work too hard, Anstice. I assure you your predecessor didn't take half the trouble with his patients that you do——"
"You'll excuse me reminding you that I have not begun my round yet." Anstice interrupted him impatiently. "You were saying you were called in to Cherry Orchard——"
"Yes. The little girl was badly burnt—owing to some carelessness on the part of the servants—and since you were not available——"
"Who told you I was not available?" His tone was grim.
"Why, Miss Wayne, of course. You know she and Mr. Cheniston came on to see me after finding you weren't able to go owing to being seedy yourself"—even Anstice's sore spirit could not doubt the little man's absolute ignorance of the nature of his supposed illness—"and they asked me to go in your place. So as it was an urgent case of course I did not hesitate to go."
"Of course not." Anstice strove to speak naturally. "Well, you went?"
"Yes, and treated the child. As you know, she is only a kiddie, and the shock has been as bad as the actual burns, though they are severe enough."
"Have you been there to-day?"
"No—that's what I came to see you about. I stayed pretty late last night, and left the child asleep; but now, of course, you will take over the case. Mrs. Carstairs understood I was only filling your place, you know."
"Do you think"—Anstice hesitated oddly, and Dr. Willows told himself the man looked shockingly ill—"do you think Mrs. Carstairs would prefer you to continue the case?"
"Good Lord, no!" Dr. Willows stared. "Why, what bee have you got in your bonnet now? I told you Mrs. Carstairs knew I was only representing you because you were ill, and couldn't come, and I told her I would run over first thing this morning and see if you were able to take on the case yourself."
"What did Mrs. Carstairs say to that?"
"She agreed, of course. And if I were you"—Dr. Willows felt vaguely uncomfortable as he stood there in the morning sunshine—"I'd go round pretty soon." He looked at his watch ostentatiously. "By Jove, it's after ten—I must get on. Then you'll go round to Cherry Orchard this morning?"
"Yes." Anstice accepted the inevitable. "I'll go round almost immediately. Thanks very much for coming, Willows. I ... I'm grateful to you."
"Oh, that's all right!" Dr. Willows, relieved by the change in Anstice's manner, waved his hand airily and returned to his car; and as soon as he was out of sight Anstice entered his own motor and turned in the direction of Cherry Orchard.
After all, he said to himself as the car glided swiftly over the hard white road, there was no reason why Mrs. Carstairs should find anything suspicious in his inability to visit Cherry Orchard on the previous evening. Doctors were only human after all—prone to the same ills to which other men are subject; and although the exigencies of one of the most exacting professions in the world would seem to inspire a corresponding endurance in its members, there are moments in which even the physician must pause in his ministrations to the world, in order, as it were, to tune up his own bodily frame to meet the demands upon it.
Of course it was possible that Cheniston had divulged to his sister the true reason of Anstice's non-arrival; but Anstice did not think it likely; for although there was, and always must be, a strong antagonism between the two men, Cheniston was an honourable man; and the secret upon which he had stumbled was one which a man of honour would instinctively keep to himself.
That his secret was safe with Iris, Anstice knew beyond any question; and as his car swept up the drive to the jasmine-covered door of Cherry Orchard he told himself that it was only his conscience which made him feel as though his absence on the previous evening must have looked odd, unusual, even—he could not help the word—suspicious.
The door was opened to him by Hagyard, and there was no doubting the sincerity of his welcome.
"Good morning, sir. I was looking out for you.... Miss Cherry's awakened, they say, and is in a sad state."
His unusual loquacity was a proof of his mental disturbance, and Anstice spoke sharply.
"Where is she? Shall I go upstairs?"
"If you please, sir. Here is Tochatti come for you, sir." And he stood aside to allow the woman to approach.
"Will you come this way, signor?" Her foreign accent was more marked than usual; and looking at her worn and sallow countenance Anstice guessed she had not slept.
He followed her without asking any questions, and in another moment was in Cherry's bedroom, the little white and pink room whose wall papers and chintzes were stamped with the life-like bunches of cherries on which he had once remarked admiringly, to the little owner's gratification.
In the small white bed lay Cherry, her head swathed in bandages, one little arm bandaged likewise; and beside her knelt Chloe Carstairs, her face like marble, her silky black hair dishevelled on her brow, as though she, too, had passed a sleepless night. Cherry's brown eyes were widely opened with an expression of half-wondering pain in their usually limpid depths, and from time to time she uttered little moans which sounded doubly piteous coming from so self-controlled a child as she.
"Dr. Anstice—at last!" Chloe rose swiftly from her knees and came to meet him with both hands outstretched. "I thought you were never coming—that Dr. Willows had forgotten to tell you——"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carstairs." He knew at once, with a relief which would not be repressed, that Cheniston had kept his miserable secret. "I only saw Dr. Willows half an hour ago, and came at once. How is Cherry this morning—did she have any sleep?"
"Yes, thank God." Listening to her low voice, Anstice wondered why he had ever thought her lacking in affection for her child. "Dr. Willows was most kind—he stayed half the night with us and Cherry slept for some hours after he left. But now she is awake, as you see, and I'm afraid she is suffering horribly."
"Let me see what I can do for her, will you?"
He approached the bed and sat down quietly by it, while Cherry ceased for a second to moan, and her brown eyes besought him, more eloquently than speech, to give her relief from this quite unusual state of affairs. At first he was not certain that the child recognized him; but presently her uninjured hand came gropingly towards him; and as he took the tiny fingers in his own Anstice felt a sudden revival of the energies which had seemed so dead, so burnt-out within him on this beautiful September morning.
"Well, Cherry, this is bad luck, isn't it?" He spoke very gently, studying her little face the while. "But don't lose heart—this pain won't last long, it will soon run away. Is itverybad?"
"It'sratherbad, thank you, my dear." Even in the midst of her tribulation Cherry strove heroically for her own gracious tone, and the familiar term of endearment sounded strangely pathetic to-day. "But you'll send it quite 'way, won't you?"
"Yes. I send away all pains," returned Anstice, lying nobly. "But first of all you must let me see just what sort of pain this one is, and then I shall know how to get rid of it. You don't mind me touching you, do you?"
"N-not much, my dear." Cherry's lips quivered, and Chloe Carstairs turned away as though unable to bear the sight of her little daughter's suffering any longer.
Quickly and tenderly Anstice made his examination without disturbing more of the dressings than was absolutely necessary; and by dint of questioning Mrs. Carstairs found that the child's brow had been badly scorched where her brown curls had caught fire, and that one little arm had suffered a grievous burn. These were the only outward signs of the accident, but the child had undergone a severe shock; and Anstice felt a sudden misgiving as he looked at the pinched little face, and noted the renewal of the pitiful moans which even Cherry's fortitude could not altogether repress.
The woman Tochatti had hovered in the background while he bent over the bed; and now, at a sign from him, she came forward silently.
"Just look after the child a moment or two, will you?" he said. "Mrs. Carstairs, may I have a word with you? Oh, don't be alarmed—I only want to hear a little more about the affair."
Tochatti shot a quick look at him from her beady black eyes; and Anstice was momentarily puzzled by her curious expression. She looked almost as though she resented his presence—and yet she should have welcomed him, seeing that he was there to do his best for the child she adored. But as she moved to the side of the bed, and took Cherry's unhurt hand in her own brown fingers with a touch of almost maternal tenderness, he told himself impatiently that he was fanciful; and turned to Mrs. Carstairs with a resolute movement.
"Will you come into my room, Dr. Anstice?" Chloe's spacious bedroom led out of her little daughter's pink and white nest; and as Anstice followed her she pulled the door to with a nervous action curiously unlike herself.
"Dr. Anstice, will she die?" Her lips were ashy, and in her white face only the sapphire eyes seemed alive. "If she dies, I will never forgive Tochatti—never!"
"Tochatti?" Anstice was surprised. "Was she to blame for this?"
"Not altogether." Chloe could be just, it seemed, even in the midst of her sorrow. "I will tell you what happened. As perhaps you know, Cherry was to have been one of Iris Wayne's bridesmaids, and at her own request Tochatti had made her dress, a flimsy little thing all muslin and lace. She had spent days over it—she embroiders wonderfully, and when it was done it was perfectly exquisite. She finished it last evening, and Cherry insisted on a dress rehearsal. She was to pay me a surprise visit in the drawing-room just before dinner, and it seems that when she was quite ready Tochatti slipped downstairs to find Hagyard and admit him to a private view, leaving Cherry alone in the room—against all rules—with two candles burning on the dressing-table."
She paused.
"I think I understand," said Anstice quietly. "Cherry took up a candle to get a better view of her pretty frock, and——"
"Not exactly," Chloe interrupted him. "She leaned forward, it seems, in order to look at herself more closely in the glass—you know children are fond of seeing themselves in pretty clothes—and, as you might imagine, she leaned too close to the candle and her sleeve caught fire."
"She cried out?"
"Yes—luckily we all heard her." Through all her marble pallor Chloe flushed at the remembrance of that poignant moment. "We rushed in and found her shrieking, and Tochatti beat out the flames with her hands."
"With her hands? Is she burnt, too, then?"
"Yes—I believe so." Chloe's tone expressed no pity. "She tied up her hand—the left one—herself, and says it is nothing much."
"I see." Privately Anstice determined to investigate the woman's hurt before he left the house. "Well—and what then?"
"When we got the flames under we found that Cherry had fainted, and we telephoned at once for you." She stopped short, taken aback by the strange expression on his face.
"Yes—and I wish to God I'd heard your call!" Anstice bit his lip savagely; and Chloe, uncomprehending but compassionate, hastened on with her story.
"You couldn't help being ill! Iris told me how your maids were all in the Park watching the fireworks—and then when my brother and Iris came down you were too ill to come. Are you better now?"
"So they went for Willows and brought him back with them?" He disregarded her question—possibly did not hear it.
"Yes, and as I have told you he was most kind. But of course Cherry did not know him, and she kept on crying for you——"
Chloe, who had intended the last words kindly, thinking to please him by this proof of the child's affection for him, was aghast at the result of her speech.
"Mrs. Carstairs, for God's sake don't tell me that!" Anstice's voice almost frightened her, so bitter, so full of remorse was it. "It only wantedthatto make the horror complete—the knowledge that I failed a little child in her need!"
"The horror?" She stared at him. "I don't understand."
"No, and there's no reason why you should." With a great effort he resumed his ordinary tone. "Mrs. Carstairs, forgive me. I ... as you know—I was—ill—last night, and I'm not quite myself this morning. But"—he turned the subject resolutely—"what I want to say is this. Cherry will need very careful nursing for some days, and I think it will be well for me to send you a nurse."
Chloe received the suggestion rather dubiously.
"Do you think it is really necessary?" she said at length. "I'm as strong as a horse, and as for Tochatti, I'm afraid she wouldn't like to feel herself superseded. She is devoted to Cherry, you know, and she is a very jealous woman."
"Yes," he said, "but even although you and Tochatti are ready to give yourselves up to the child, in a case of this sort skill is wanted as well as affection." He smiled to soften the harshness of his words, and Chloe inconsequently thought that he looked very weary this morning.
"Of course, and if we don't prove competent you are at liberty to send us a nurse. But"—she spoke rather wistfully—"mayn't we try, Tochatti and I? I would a thousand times sooner nurse Cherry myself than let a stranger be with her."
Touched by something in her voice, remembering also the peculiar position in which this woman stood—a wife without a husband, with no one in the world, apparently, to care for her save her child—Anstice yielded the point for the moment.
"Very well, then. We will try this arrangement first, and if Cherry goes on well there will be no need to call in other help. Now I should like to see Tochatti, and give you both instructions."
Without a word Chloe led him back to the smaller bedroom where Cherry lay uneasily dozing; and Anstice beckoned to Tochatti to approach the window.
She came forward rather sullenly; and Anstice, irritated by her manner, spoke in rather a peremptory tone.
"Let me see your hands, please. I understand you were burnt last night."
Unwillingly the woman held out her left hand, which was wrapped round with a roughly constructed bandage; and as Anstice took it and began to unwind the folds he heard her draw in her breath with an odd little hiss.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked, surprised, and the woman answered stolidly.
"No, thank you, sir. You did not hurt me at all."
Her manner struck him as peculiar; it almost seemed as though she resented his efforts on her behalf; and as he unwrapped the last of the bandage Anstice told himself she was by no means an attractive patient.
But when he saw her hand he forgave her all her peculiarities; for she must have suffered untold pain during the hours which had elapsed since the accident.
"I say—why didn't you show your hand to the doctor last night?" He spoke impetuously, really shocked to see the extent of her burns. "You have given yourself a lot of unnecessary pain, and it will take much longer to heal. You must let me dress the place at once."
Assisted by Chloe, who fetched and carried for him deftly, he dressed and bound up the burnt hand; and though the woman never flinched, there was a look in her eyes which showed him she was enduring great pain.
"There." He finished his work and looked at her closely. "That will feel easier soon. But you know you should lie down and try to sleep for an hour or two—and that hand will be quite useless for some days. Really, Mrs. Carstairs"—he turned to Chloe—"I think you will have to let me send for a nurse, after all. You can't do everything, and Tochatti is more or less disabled——"
He was surprised by the effect of his words. Tochatti turned to her mistress eagerly, and began pouring out a stream of Italian which was quite incomprehensible to Anstice, who was no better at modern languages than the average public school and University product. And Chloe replied in the same tongue, though without the wealth of gesture employed by the other woman; while Anstice waited, silently, until the colloquy was concluded.
Finally Chloe turned, apologetically, to him and explained the subject of the woman's entreaties.
"Tochatti is so terribly upset at the idea of a strange woman coming to nurse Cherry that I have promised to try to persuade you to reverse your verdict," she said. "Do you mind? Of course if we can't manage you must do as you think fit—but——"
"We will try, by all means." In spite of himself, he was touched by the woman's fierce devotion to her charge. "And now I'll tell you exactly what I want you to do until I come again this afternoon."
He proceeded to give them full instructions how to look after the child, and when he had assured himself that they understood exactly what was to be done, he took his leave, promising to call again in the course of a few hours.
As he drove away he mused for a moment on the Italian woman's peculiar manner towards him.
"Seems as if she hated me to speak to her ... she's never been like that before—indeed, when Cherry broke her arm she used to welcome me quite demonstratively." He smiled, then grew grave again. "Of course the woman was in pain to-day—she was a queer colour, too—looked downright ill. I expect the affair has been a shock to her as well as to the child."
And with that conclusion he dismissed Tochatti from his mind for the time being, his thoughts reverting to the one subject which filled his mental horizon to-day.
All through the bright September afternoon he sat alone in his rarely-used drawing-room. The consulting-room was haunted ground to him since the episode of the previous evening, and he could not bear to go out into the village lest he might perhaps behold some signs of the great event which was agitating peaceful Littlefield to-day.
But his imagination, unmercifully awakened from the stupor which had temporarily lulled it to repose, showed him many visions on that golden September afternoon.
He saw the old grey church decked with flowers, saw the sunlight filtering through the famous Burne-Jones window in a splash of gorgeous blue and crimson, staining the white petals of the big lilies in the chancel ... he heard the peals of the organ as the choristers broke out into the hymn which heralded the bride ... saw the bride herself, a little pale, a little serious, in her white robes, in her eyes the grave and tender look whose possibility he had long ago divined....
Oh, he was a fool to let his imagination torment him so ... and he sprang to his feet, determined to put an end to these maddening visions which only unfitted him for the stern and hopeless battle which was all that he could look forward to henceforth....
As he moved impatiently towards the door a sudden peal of bells rang out gaily, exultantly on the soft and balmy air; and his face turned grey as he realized that this was the signal which betokened that Iris was now the wife of Bruce Cheniston, his to have and to hold, irrevocably his until death should intervene to end their dual existence....
With a muttered oath he strode out of the house, and making his way round to the garage ordered his car to be brought forth immediately.
When it came he flung himself into the steering seat and drove away at such a pace that Andrews, his outdoor man and general factotum, looked after him anxiously.
"Looks like getting his licence endorsed," he observed to the pretty housemaid, Alice, who was watching her master's departure from a convenient window. "Never saw him drive so reckless—he's generally what you might call a very considerate driver."
"Considerate? What of?" asked Alice ungrammatically. "The dogs and chickens in the road, d'you mean?"
"Dogs and chickens! Good Lord, no!" Andrews was a born mechanician, and it was a constant source of regret to him that Anstice generally drove the car himself. "They're nothing but a nuisance anyway. No, I meant he considered the car—but he don't look much like it to-day."
"Oh, the car!" Alice was openly scornful. "Well, from the pace he went off just now, I should think he'll smash up your precious old car before he goes far. And no loss either," said Alice, who was engaged to a soldier in a cavalry regiment, and therefore disdained all purely mechanical means of locomotion.
But once out on the road Anstice moderated his pace somewhat, since to run over an unwary pedestrian would only add to the general hopelessness of the situation; and he reached Cherry Orchard without any such mishap as his servants had prophesied for him.