Chapter V

THERE was someone stroking his hand; and that stroking gave him ineffable consolation. It was a regular rhythmical movement from wrist to fingers; and he remained with his eyes closed, enjoying it.

Then he perceived that his left hand was also firmly and tenderly held; and this double support on both sides reassured and bore him up.

Then he became aware of Pain that rested on him, like a hat drawn down to his eyes. It was exterior, not interior; it was not, that is to say, in his consciousness, but, rather, was faced and contemplated by it. The pain was a continuous pulsation, rather like the throb of a motor-engine, though far slower — a series of noiseless explosions from a point, like the bursting of a shell; and he perceived that the colour of them was a kind of electric blue. As he opened his eyes the pain sensibly decreased; or at least retired a little way off. A voice was talking gently and soothingly; and this, like the stroking of his hand, was an extraordinary consolation, though he did not at present understand one word that it was saying.

The stroking stopped, and there was a stir in the room; he thought that someone had gone out.

" Go on with that, please," he said, moving his fingers a little. " I like that."

The stroking began again.

" Is it all right? "

" Yes; perfectly right. It's all over."

"What time is it?"

*' It's just half-past twelve."

" Why, I can see! "

" Yes, of course you can."

He remained without speaking again for a minute or two, turning his eyes about, taking in new impressions, and considering the marvel that he could do so. The pain was there still, just as before, like a person hammering heavily on a closed door and seeking entrance: he felt he could not bother to open and see who was there: he would presently, when he had had time to look about him.

There was a mirror over the fireplace, framed in gilt carved wood, with a kind of little rail at the top of the glass. This was extremely interesting, because, although he knew it was a mirror, it was also the Thames at Westminster; the rail was the bridge, and the glass was the surface of the water, and above there were the houses, lit from within and glowing with the light of sunset upon them. It was extraordinarily beautiful. How curious that it was both a mirror and the Thames.... Were other things in the room like that?

On the right there was a tall folding-screen; and the top of the white door appeared above it. These were all right; but in front was a kind of tall, carved lamp-support, like a very elongated table; there was a vase of flowers on this. But it was not only a table and flowers; it was also the leg of a giant, from the knee to the ankle: the rest of the giant must be above the roof.

He became more and more interested, and looked to the left. The window was on the left, with the blind drawn down; and before it stood another table with a tall, flowering plant. But it was not just a table and a plant; it was also the figure of a Cavalier in a plumed hat with his hand raised, as in defiance. He thought he really must be a little feverish; or was it that his eyes were not quite right after all? It was surely unreasonable and impossible that these things could be themselves and yet also things with which they could not really have even the remotest connection.

" Can I really see all right? " he asked.

" Oh! yes. Perfectly."

He turned his eyes to see who spoke. He had practically forgotten these people. The woman who had spoken was a little grey-haired delicate-looking person, dressed in white. It was she who was holding his left hand. He liked her face; she looked human and kindly. Then he turned his eyes to the right; and a tall girl, in blue, with a white apron from her throat to below her knees — (which was as far as he could see) — sat there: it was she who was still stroking his hand. She had a clear steady face, dark hair and grey eyes; she was rather of the Enid type. Yes; he liked her too.

" You're Nurse Deacon, aren't you? " he said.

" Yes, Sir Nevill."

" And you're Miss Brance," he began, turning his eyes back. But at that instant the knocking Pain waxed intolerable; and he drew a swift hiss of agony.

" Oh! it hurts! " he moaned, and shut his eyes.

" The syringe again " — he heard whispered across the blazing explosions of blue light....

Presently he felt his left arm being handled, as if someone had pulled up his py jama-sleeve and was lightly fingering his fore-arm. Then there was. a tiny touch of a different kind — no more than that. Then, little by little, though the pain did not cease, it grew more remote and even tolerable.

After a period he began to feel restless. He supposed that it was morphia that had been given him; and he was coming to the conclusion that morphia was a very much over-rated drug. It had quieted him in a sort of physical way; but it had not really touched the seat of the trouble. The pain was there, just as before, hammering still, though in a muffled kind of way; but it was practically as bad: and there were no delicious sensations, such as he had always understood resulted from an injection. He felt merely oppressed and restless, not soothed.

This would never do. He drew a long breath and opened his eyes once more. He thought he would talk a little bit, and find out things. Besides, it might distract him.

" Miss Brance."

" Miss Brance has gone downstairs. She'll be back presently."

" Oh! it doesn't matter. Look here, Nurse, was the operation successful? "

" Yes; perfectly," came the quiet voice. " Why, you can see again! "

"Yes: that's all right. Nurse!"

"Yes, Sir Nevill?"

"Doctors gone, I suppose?"

" They've been gone over an hour."

" Oh! I suppose Sir Arthur will be coming back? "

" He'll telephone for news this evening. We've told him you're doing very well. He'll come if you want him, of course."

" Did I use bad language this morning? Don't tell me lies, will you? "

He turned his eyes to see her face as she answered; and saw that she was smiling a little.

" No, Sir Nevill. Indeed you didn't. You only spoke twice "

"When?... What did I say?"

" Once during the operation; and once when the men were carrying you upstairs. You said, ' Oh! my God! ' '

" That was really all? "

She nodded.

" Yes."

" Oh!... I say, Nurse, you know, that wasn't a prayer. I'm not a bit pious. That was an — an expletive."

He heard her laugh softly. Really she was very human and pleasant.

"Would you like anything to eat or drink, Sir Nevill? Are you thirsty at all? You mustn't talk much, you know."

He questioned himself. Was he thirsty? — No. Hungry?... On the contrary food seemed entirely disgusting.

" I wouldn't eat if you gave me a hundred pounds. You can let go of my hand, please."

He drew his hands together as she lifted the sheet for him to do so.

" Now I must talk. I want to know a lot of things."

" Don't you think you can go to sleep a little? "

" No. How can I with this beastly bandage all over my head? Has my — I mean, has Mrs. Fanning gone away? I should like to see her. And Algy."

" I'm afraid you mustn't, Sir Nevill. Besides, they've both gone away. Miss Brance went down half an hour ago to say how well you were doing."

" Oh! Why are the blinds down? I'm not dead, ant I? "

" Indeed you're not, Sir Nevill. But the light would bother you. Just lie quite still, if you can, and "

"Well; and the operation really was successful? It wasn't — wasn't cancer, was it? "

" Nothing of the kind, Sir Nevill. And you're doing very well indeed."

" And it's all over. Really all over. And I shan't have to go down to that — that beastly little room any more? "

He spoke vehemently; and the pain in his head grew vehement too.

" Sir Nevill; you really must be more quiet. You don't want me to have to send for Miss Brance? She's at lunch too."

" You'll... you'll swear it's not cancer? "

" Of course I will. Now, do you think a little chicken-jelly — or soup? "

He considered this slowly. Soup, of course, was intolerable; but cold chicken- jelly

" You'll have to have something, you know. You had no breakfast this morning."

" Shall I feel better if I do? I don't feel a bit well, you know. It's not cancer, I think you said? I think perhaps chicken-jelly, if it's cold "

" Of course you'll feel better. Will you lie still if I leave you for two minutes? "

" Yes. All right. And perhaps half a cigarette afterwards.... I don't know. Oh! Lord! my head! "

" Just get the syringe again," whispered a voice at some infinitely later period, across the blinding explosions of pain; " and then get the dressings ready."

He did not know in the least what time it was; and it was far too great an effort to ask. But he opened his tormented eyes, and saw that a shaded electric lamp stood by his bed. Yet still the pain was not actually crushing; he never felt that he really could not bear it any more. Only, it was necessary to keep his attention firmly fixed upon it and his will braced to meet it. The pain and he were two, not one.

He was making, too, other curious discoveries. One was that his nervous system was very much larger than his body; it had thrown out fibres and tentacles throughout the whole bed, so that even the faintest touch on the clothes thrilled through him. Just now one of the women had brushed the end of the bed with her skirt; and he had winced as if he had been struck. Some of the fibres reached even down upon the floor, so that every vibration of a footstep, however soft, ran through him. The centre of the system was rather to the left and forward of the top of his head, almost on his temple; and it was to this brooding, incarnate pain that every message came.

He felt the prick of the needle very much more distinctly this time. It was a tiny additional pain. His head appeared to register and acknowledge it promptly.

" I don't think I'll have any more of that," he murmured. " It's no good, you know." Then he closed his eyes again. But the dressing of the wound was a far greater horror. Something in the tone of the voices that spoke to him rendered resistance impossible. He realised that it must be gone through. So he lay still, with his eyes closed, trying to think how pleasant it would be when it was all over, permitting hands to move over his head, feeling a shocking kind of cold at one point that made him shiver, succeeded by a trickling kind of warmth that was followed by a little metallic noise in some vessel. This warmth was faintly comforting — he deliberately kept his eyes closed for fear that that which trickled might be blood and he should see it. Then the bandages closed again on his head: it was horrible while they were being put on; it was reassuring when all was done and his head rested again easily on the pillows.

Then he opened his eyes.

" Thanks very much/' he said.

Then he wondered whether he had been behaving well. He couldn't remember having said, " Thank you," before, at all: he wondered whether he had shown himself a shocking coward.

" Miss Brance "

" You mustn't talk, Sir NevilL I want you to lie quite still."

He let his eyes wander over her little white figure. She was dressed for dinner, it seemed, in a sort of tea-gown; but had an apron on and linen sleeves drawn over her arms. She looked very familiar and reassuring somehow. It was marvellous that anyone could be dressed for dinner. He looked away from her at a soft sound, and saw that the nurse was wheeling away behind one of the screens a little plate-glass table. The table had various things on it.

He decided to pay no attention to Miss Brance's remark.

" Has Sir Arthur Handsworth been again? "

" I am afraid you mustn't talk, Sir Nevill. Just try to lie quite still and go to sleep."

Then the little figure went noiselessly across the dim-lit room and disappeared. He lay, considering.

At some further remote period Miss Brance was by him again. She carried a little instrument in her hand. " How do you feel now, Sir Nevill? " " I think I'm better. May I talk a little, please? "

She sat down by his bedside as the nurse rose and went out.

" Well, just a little. But it's nearly ten o'clock, you know. Nurse Deacon will be back to settle you for the night directly; and then the night-nurse will come on duty."

" Will she be in the room? "

"No: just on the landing outside. But she'll come immediately if you ring. I want you to have a good sleep."

" I won't have any more morphia, please."

" I've brought something quite different this time."

"What is it?"

" Never mind about that, Sir Nevill. But it's quite different."

" It's not cancer I've got, fs it? " (He felt it was most important to settle this question. It had been on bis mind a little; and he meant to have asked Nurse Deacon; but somehow it had been forgotten.)

" Oh! no. Not a trace. You need have no fear whatever of that. Is the pain less? "

" I think it is, a little. But it goes on hammering, you know."

" Well; that'll get better every hour. You've had hardly any proper sleep at all, all to-day."

" When can I see my aunt? "

" Oh! in a day or two. We shall have to see how you get on. I shall telephone to her to-night as soon as you're settled. We've had a good many inquiries."

"Oh! Who?"

" Well: Lord Maresfield has been once, and telephoned again this evening. Then Mr. Lennox came again this afternoon. Then a Mrs. Bessington called about six."

" What? "

" Mrs. Bessington. She said that Mrs. Fanning had told her. And any amount of flowers have come; but I am afraid you mustn't have them till to-morrow morning."

" I suppose no one else came with — with Mrs. Bessing-ton?"

" No: she came alone."

As Nevill did not move or speak again, the little woman stood up.

" Nurse Deacon is just coming, I think."

When the settling for the night had been finished, Nevill again lay very still.

The process had been really quite interesting. He could not follow all the tactics carried out by the two nurses: he had raised himself a little on their arms; he had lifted his feet, all as he was bidden. His blankets had been raised; a sheet pulled; and then the blankets lowered again. The result of all was that within five minutes he lay between fresh sheets above and below, and new cool pillows. Then the pyjama sleeve had been pulled up again; and the prick had followed, more distinct than ever. Finally the two women moved noiselessly about the room, shifting and arranging this and that: a few more coals were put on the fire. Then they had bidden him good-night. The bell-button and the light-button, with a box of cigarettes, a match-box, and a covered glass of barley-water, all stood within easy reach on the table by his bedside. He had managed, too, with only very slight disgust, half a dozen more spoonfuls of chicken- jelly.

He stared at the walls that wavered in the firelight; and the mirror that Had been the Thames at Westminster this afternoon.

Mrs. Bessington had been to call this afternoon! He had known well enough, even before he had asked, that she had come alone; he knew now, too, that she must have come without her daughter's knowledge, and that she would not say a word to that daughter of what she had heard. Yet in his weakness and his drug-inspired semi-delirium there was one side of him that strove to pretend that it was not so, and that Enid was at least a little sorry to hear of his new trouble. But it was no more than pretence. Just as he had known this afternoon that the mirror was not really the Thames and that the growing plant was not a Cavalier, so he knew now that Enid was nothing to him — nor he to her — that she had shown herself completely another from that which he had fancied her — even though it gave him a miserably pleasant kind of pain to pretend that she was relenting.

So in his weakness he turned the point in his soul again and again, and the pains of both body and mind began to work. There were other considerations, too, beginning to present themselves.

The nurse looked in noiselessly about midnight, hoping that he might be asleep; but, so soon as she looked, she caught the glimmer of the fire in his black eyes. But he said nothing, and she went out. She looked in again an hour later, and still he was awake. He said he hadn't succeeded in getting to sleep yet.

Between three and four he rang for her.

" It's not the least good," he said. " I can't sleep. Would you just turn up the light and give me a book or two? Oh! yes: and just cut half a dozen cigarettes in half. I find I can't quite manage a whole one."

Ill

" Now then, Sir Nevill, let's have a look."

It was quite an odd sensation for him, next morning about eleven, to set eyes for the first time upon the man whose voice he knew so well from his first interview with him — the man who had performed the butchery on him only twenty-four hours before.

Sir Arthur Handsworth was not much like Algy's description of him. He was much leaner in body than Nevill had imagined; his eyes were less alert and bright; he was extremely well dressed in a dark grey morning-suit.

The process of " having a look " was not pleasant. Nevill had to lie right over on his side, with his face half buried in the pillow, and feel fingers touching the top of his head in a manner that gave him a sensation of having no skull protection at all. Once or twice during the process, and while the surgeon himself dressed the wound, Nevill caught sight of his long, dry-looking fingers. It was those fingers that had held the corkscrew-like instrument yesterday.

He felt curiously exhausted, not indeed with the pain, since a couple of hours' sleep after seven o'clock this morning had certainly eased it very greatly, but with the effort he had to make to keep his nerves tight and rigid while the examination was made. His nerves felt raw and apprehensive while this went on; and appeared to relax like damp fiddle-strings when it was over; and he lay back again on his pillows crowned with clean bandages. He felt a dull kind of resentment against the surgeon.

"Well?" he asked.

" It's perfectly satisfactory," said the other, watching his face with a searching kind of look. " And the pain's better, I hear? "

" Oh! yes. When shall I be able to go away, do you think?"

" It depends almost entirely on yourself, Sir Nevill. The thing that matters now is the healing of the wound. If you do what you are told, and can keep quiet, I should think you could travel in ten days or a fortnight."

"And the operation was successful?"

" Perfectly," said the other shortly.

Nevill was conscious of a considerable relief. It was true that his nurses had implied as much; but it was more satisfactory to hear of it from the surgeon himself. And immediately his thoughts turned to his own people.

" When may my aunt come and see me, do you think? "

" You want to see her very much? "

" If I may."

" Well; you might see her for half an hour this afternoon. She might come and have a cup of tea with you if you liked."

Nevill looked up sharply. He had no idea that it would be allowed so soon. From a very slight air in the surgeon's manner he had thought it would be several days before anyone would be allowed to come.

" Well; that's very good of you. You have seen her, I suppose? "

" I saw her yesterday, after the operation. But she mustn't come unless you really can get some sleep before."

" That'll be all right," said Nevill. " I feel more like it to-day."

He awoke that afternoon a little before four, and lay, well content enough, feeling remarkably light and cheerful. It was as if the sleep had purged his brain of those flying shreds of impatience and resentment that had troubled him for the first few hours after his return to consciousness, and that had manifested themselves even once or twice during the surgeon's visit this morning.

Aunt Anna was to come about half-past four; and he was glad to have a little while to arrange, both in thought and word, what he had to say to her. A number of new and rather surprising ideas had come to him during the last twenty-four hours, and particularly during the long night, until he had slept at last in the dawn. He felt even a kind of pleasure in the prospect of the humiliating confession he would have to make....

Then there were various plans he wished to speak to her about — or rather he wished to consult her as to the plans that had best be formed for the carrying out of his future ideas.

For one thing, at any rate, had come to him very insistently— now that he was emerging from his new experience, and looked forward to life once more — that he must really be rather more definite. It was pleasant enough to dawdle at Hartley, and play tennis, and ride with Jim, and hunt and shoot and all the rest of it; but this was not exactly life itself. He must do something; he was not sure whether it would be Parliament, or agriculture; but it must be something. Marriage, of course, might come some day, he prudently reminded himself; not indeed such a marriage as that of which he had once dreamed; but at any rate a decent and Christian matrimony. However, that must take care of itself. Meantime he must look out for some definite line; it was pleasant to think that Aunt Anna and Jim would form the domestic background to this new-born strenuousness.

She came in so quietly and naturally that he was almost taken aback. The nurse who had looked in soon after he awoke, and gone out again saying that she would bring up tea for Mrs. Fanning as soon as she arrived, merely tapped on the door, and then opened it; and Aunt Anna came in.

She came straight up to the bed, smiling, with brighteyes. She looked marvellously young and pretty; it was almost impossible to remember that really her hair was not powdered.

" My dear boy," she said.

She made as if she would kiss him; but, as she reached him, she hesitated. Then she took his hand instead and kissed that.

" Well; here we are, Aunt Anna," said Nevill. " Sit down where I can see you. And for goodness' sake don't touch the bed or I shall scream."

As she sat down, very close to the bed, and facing him, again, the door was pushed open, and Nurse Deacon came in with the tray. There was a soft bustle as Aunt Anna cleared a little table and put it before her.

" You may have tea? " asked Aunt Anna.

" Certainly," said Nevill. " But I think it mustn't be strong."

It was delicious to watch her as she poured it out and noiselessly moved things this way and that, finally putting his cup and a plate of rusks within his reach. He was perfectly able to help himself when once he had been properly arranged.

" Just tell me all the news first," said Nevill.

She drank her cup straight off, and set it down.

" No: I won't have anything to eat," she said. " Well — the news "

Certainly she seemed a little agitated; but that was only natural, thought Nevill.

" Yes; the news," he said again. " All about what you did yesterday; and Algy and Charleson and everything. I haven't seen Charleson for two days. They won't let him come up, you know."

" Ah! yes," she said. " Well, I got here about nine yesterday, and had a word or two with Sir Arthur Hands-worth. Then they sent down to say you had taken the anaesthetic splendidly. Then I heard that the operation was over — and I went into St. Joseph's "

" But you saw Handsworth, didn't you? "

She appeared to recover herself with a kind of jerk.

" Oh! yes: I saw him; and he gave me the — the news."

" He told me so this morning/' observed Nevill. " Go on."

" In the afternoon we inquired again; and the same at night, about ten. I sent a note round to Mrs. Bessington, you know "

" Yes: I heard she had come."

" I thought you wouldn't mind. Mr. Lennox dined with me. Then this morning, when I came, I heard that perhaps I should be allowed to see you this afternoon."

She was speaking very quietly and rather rapidly, as if she were controlling herself with great success. Nevill was interested to observe that self-control was necessary for her. It touched him considerably to see that she was, plainly, so much agitated and moved by what was, after all, a comparatively uneventful operation. Of course the whole thing was, itself, an event; but, within those brackets, all had been really very smooth and successful.

" Well; that's all your news? "

" I think so."

He put down his cup and settled himself a little lower in bed.

" I've got a heap to say," he said. " Just give me a cigarette. I can manage a whole one, I think. Thanks.... And a match."

She held the match while he lighted up. He drew one or two whiffs; and then began.

" Yes; I've got a heap to say. You won't think me a prig, will you, or sentimental, will you? "

" My dear! "

" Because I really do think it true. Of course it may just be a reaction; but — well; I don't think it is. I've been thinking a lot — Aunt Anna."

" Yes, my dear."

" I've been a smug beast. That's the beginning. Did I ever tell you about the Pieta at Frascati? "

" I don't think so."

" Well, she and I saw it together, you know — Enid, I mean."

He saw her catch her lower lip in her teeth for an instant. She looked a little pale, too, he noticed.

" Oh! no," he said, thinking that he understood. " That's all over. It's not about her; at least not much. It began with the Pieta. We both said we couldn't bear it."

She nodded. Her face was set in a kind of rigid attention.

" You know what I mean — suffering, and all that. It didn't seem to fit; it seemed morbid, and all that. Well; I don't think that any more, now."

This time she did not even nod: but her whole intense air assented. She seemed waiting for some denouement.

" It began when Enid threw me over," he went on, closing his eyes for a moment or two. " It was... was awful. Well; I did the wrong thing. I see that now. I might have run amuck; I see that now. But that wasn't really much temptation. But I did what was very nearly as bad — I deliberately turned my back. I would not suffer. So I turned to other things; and I rode and I played the fool and I bathed with Jim; and I tried to say to myself that I'd be just an animal — a pagan — oh! a decent sort of animal. I honestly don't think I could be the other. And then I found that I couldn't."

He looked up at her again; and her attentiveness seemed even deepened. She was looking at him with an extraordinary kind of strain in her face, as if watching some process of which she knew the end. She did not even shift her eyes when they met his; it was as if she was looking at a picture. It was almost painful so to be stared at. Again he closed his eyes. He was feeling rather exhausted again. He would make haste and finish.

" I couldn't because... because God would not allow it. (I am trying to tell you simply, my dear. Don't think me a prig, please.) First of all came the blindness. That set me thinking — that, and the pain. I did have headaches, you know, besides, that I wouldn't tell you about. Then came what Handsworth said to me.... That startled me. About my father, I mean.... And then came the operation.... My dear, I'm a born coward. I...1 loathed it."

He opened his eyes once more. She was leaning back in her chair; her elbow was on the tea-table, and her hand shaded her face. Well; it was easier so.

" But I didn't see it all till yesterday — and last night. I couldn't sleep, you know. I thought and thought. And — I don't want to whine, you know — but the pain has been sickening.... Well; I believe I see the point now. He wouldn't let me alone. First Enid; and then, when I tried the other, Pain.... I give in, Aunt Anna. I don't want to run away any more. I — I — well; to put it in five words, I don't hate the Pieta any more. I see the point. It must be there. Bang in the middle of the woods too. It's — it's everywhere, you know. There's no getting away. So one may as well accept it."

He looked at her again, himself moved very deeply. It had cost him a good deal to say it. But she, apparently, was even more affected. He had heard no sound; but she was wheeled about in her chair, and her face was hidden altogether in both her hands.

"My dear, I'm sorry. But I've done; that's all. At least, that's all about that part. You understand, don't you? "

He saw her bow her head in assent. But she didn't show her face.

" There's one more thing; and then we'll talk about something else. I've been dawdling frightfully, you know. I've done nothing whatever. Now that simply won't do. And I want you to tell me what's the best thing, when once I'm back at Hartley "

Then she lifted her face, and he saw a look in it that he had never seen before. It was expectancy still; but it was more.

" Oh! no; I don't want to do anything sensational, you know. I'm not going to be fanatical or — or anything like that. But I must do something. It may be Parliament, or it may be "

He stopped dead.

"What's the matter? Why do you look like that?"

Was it the pressure of her hands on her face? Or was it some strange effect of the half light coming through the thin silk curtains?

She rose as he looked, and slid forward on to her knees. He winced a little as her hands came down on his own right hand that lay outside the coverlet.

" My dear," she said, " I am sure you can do a great deal." (Her voice, too, was strange; it had neither tears nor laughter in it; but there was an extraordinary tone in every word. Her face, too, was tense and exalte, yet without even a touch of hysteria.) " You can do a great deal: it is for this that — that all this has happened. Nevill, my dear boy "

She was holding his hand firmly and tenderly. He said nothing.

" Nevill, my dear; you know what you made me promise?... That the doctor should say nothing to me that I didn't say to you. Well, I have his leave: he has commissioned me "

" Is it cancer? " he whispered sharply.

" No, my dear; it is not cancer. He has told you the truth too: but he has not told you the whole truth. My darling, you won't be afraid. I know that. You have been splendid — splendid. He has done what he could, you know; and now your real work must begin. We are Christians: that is why he has allowed me to tell you so soon...."

Over his whole body he felt the light sweat break out, like ten thousand delicate needle points touching his skin. A solemn deep pulse began to beat at the base of his throat. A light film passed over his eyes; and all that he looked at — her face, the screen by the door, the coverlet on which lay his hand enfolded in hers — all these things appeared to swim a little and then seethe as if in granulation.

" We are Christians, you and I," said Aunt Anna. " There is nothing at all to fear. You had the Sacraments— I know that — before you knew. There is nothing to fear...."

" Tell me."

" You will be able to see till the end, they Hope. But they are not sure; though he removed most of the... the... but he could not remove it all. It must grow again, and "

" How long? " he whispered.

" Three or four months at the most/' whispered Aunt Anna.

There was no sound at all in the room as she bowed again her face upon her hands, and then, opening them, rested her lips upon his fingers.

Out of the far distance, checked and muffled by the intervening houses, came the moan of a siren; died again; rose again, and was silent. The coals in the grate fell inwards with a soft crash.

When she lifted her eyes again he was lying quite still. He had raised himself a little in bed as he had asked how long; and she had felt him sink back once more as she had answered. Now he was quiet again, with his eyes open and looking out beyond the end of his bed as if he were thinking gently.

She did not speak. She understood something of that strange alchemy of the mind which requires time that a new and unexpected element may be allowed to sink gently down and be assimilated. It was not yet sunk in; he knew what she had said; but he did not yet know that he knew it. He was quite pale; his lips were slightly parted; but there was no reaction of shock or of alarm. He was taking it in gently, as his manner was.

She had formed no plan as to how she was to tell him. She herself had known it, down below there in the drawing-room, as soon as she had seen the surgeon's face when he came down from his business. He had told her gently and kindly, just so much (and no more) as she had told Nevill just now.

She had tried to frame some form of words by which she in turn might tell him; and had given it up. She must wait till she saw him. Then she would know.,..

The surgeon had, at first, utterly forbidden her to tell him for at least a week. She had answered that then she could not face him at all: she had said that Catholics were not like other people; that death was not to them as it was to others.

He had consented at last; for she would not hear the proposal that anyone but herself should tell him. It was from her lips, and hers only, that he must learn it. He had consented at last; or rather had withdrawn his absolute prohibition. But he was emphatic that he did not formally sanction it: and that she must bear the responsibility....

Well; she had done it. And Nevill lay here silent, meditating.

There came a tap at the door. That must be the nurse coming to take her away. At the sound he moved his eyes and looked at her; and somehow the expression in his face was not quite what she had expected.

" Aunt Anna "

" Yes, my darling."

" Aunt Anna " he hesitated. *' I see what you meant just now — when — when you said that about my work.... I'll try.... Give me a kiss."

But even the tone of his voice was disconcerting. Had he, then, not quite understood?