by Edith Nesbit
“No, no; don’t, dear,” he said. The tender word could not help getting itself spoken; it was the only answer to her appealing eyes. “Of course I am not angry. How could I be? How could I be anything but — ? Ah! you know,” he said. But he was awakening to the world as he had known it, the old dull world that had not in it this wonder with the eyes that seemed to live in his, the arms that went round his neck as though that were their right.
“Listen,” he said again; “it has taken longer than was expected. Things have changed.”
“How long?” she asked, and not waiting for the answer, hurried in the vital question, “not you — you have not changed? You love me like before?”
What could he say? The new life that he had not created, of course, but re-created, seemed to hang on his words.
“You know,” he found himself saying, “you know,” and his hands clasped hers closely. But he himself did not know.
“Do not be afraid,” he went on. “I only ask this. Will you trust me?”
“I always trusted you,” she said.
“Trust me entirely. Do exactly what I tell you. It is not yet safe. There are things to be done for you, to make your new life safe. There have been changes—”
He hesitated. In face of her obvious delusion that he was her lover, that he was the man who had induced in her the death sleep from which he, Anthony, had roused her, he could not tell her the truth. Yet something he must tell her.
“Don’t try to understand now. I’ll explain later. What I want you to understand is that things have happened, things are changed. Your life isn’t secure, no, not even now, unless you see a doctor who knows what to do for you. And the only doctor I can get is one who doesn’t know everything about us; doesn’t know that I — that you — that we—”
“That we are lovers,” she said simply; “but I will tell him.”
“That is just what you must not do,” he said. “I can’t explain why you mustn’t. You must pretend that you don’t know me, that I am a stranger who has happened to be able to revive you from a trance.”
“You — a stranger; but—”she breathed, clasping his hands more earnestly.
“It is as I say,” he said. “Trust me. Can you trust me?”
Her eyes answered him.
“It’s impossible to explain now,” he said; “there isn’t time.” And then, for the first time as he remembered how he had used those very words to Rose, he remembered too for the first time what he was to Rose and what Rose ought to be to him. He stumbled on blindly: “The only thing now is to see a doctor. I’m going to call him. If you let him know that you — that I”
“I know,” she said; “but the doctor knows. Every one knows.”
“This is another doctor,” he said. “Trust me, believe me when I say that everything depends on his not knowing, on everybody’s not knowing that “ — he hesitated and the end of his sentence came like the caught breath of a spent runner—”that we love each other.”
“Truly?” she said.
And he answered: “Truly. Things are different. See, you are in a strange place. All is changed.”
“Except our love,” she said.
“Except our love,” he repeated.
“I see,” she said, looking round; “it is a strange place. But it is a laboratory. And the candles are there and the altar. In the heart of it it’s the same. You told me—”
She faltered and swayed a little as she sat.
“You understand,” he said; “no one must know.
It is our secret. If any one knows yet that we are lovers, we shall be parted for ever.”
He saw himself humouring the wild illusions of this girl whom he had raised from the dead even while her touch on his hands set every nerve in his body vibrating to the tune of heaven and hell.
“I do not understand,” she said, and her voice was faint and grew fainter as she spoke. “ I do not understand, but I obey. No one shall know from me, my lover, my Master.”
She shivered and swayed towards him. He caught and laid her again on the couch of lambskin. He hesitated a moment, then bent over her, still hesitating.
“It is the last time,” he told himself. “Wilton will restore her memory, her senses. Then she will know that it is not I whom she loves.”
And, with a pang of such agony as he had never dreamed possible, his lips sought hers.
“Oh, my love,” she murmured, withdrawing her lips, “I think I am dying. I can’t leave you. I can’t — not after everything — not—”
Her face had grown once more death-white, her voice trailed away into silence, and Anthony, springing up, rushed to the telephone.
“Wilton will know what to do,” he said, as he held the receiver to his ear.
Wilton did know what to do. And under his ministrations the colour came back to pale cheeks and lips. She opened tired eyes on the two men, only to close them again in sleep.
“I never would have believed it,” said Wilton, “never!”
The two men were talking in whispers at the far end of the laboratory.
“Well, you were right,” said Wilton generously.
“And, I say,” said Anthony, “you won’t go talking about it, will you? You see it’s my secret. It’s my life-work. It’s my great discovery.”
“I won’t,” said Wilton grimly. “One thing, no one would believe me if I did.”
“I’ll make it all public in time,” said Anthony feverishly; “but I do want to choose my own time.”
“Of course,” said Wilton. “Have you found out who she is, or how she got there, or anything?”
“I thought it best to send for you at once,” said Anthony. “You see I didn’t know how to deal with the case at all after a certain point. So I just called for you. And I can’t thank you enough for not bearing malice about my imbecility this morning.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Wilton.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks awfully. Good night, old man,” said Drelincourt. But Wilton hesitated.
“I say,” he began awkwardly, “she’ll wake up presently, you know. I expect she’ll be quite conscious; not wandering, you know, as you said she was at first. I know the scientific mind doesn’t bother about Mrs. Grundy; but she will, when she wakes, you know.”
“I don’t quite understand,” said Anthony. He was aching in every limb, worn out in every fibre of soul and spirit. Sleep seemed to be now the only good thing in the world. “Do speak plain English. I’m tired out.”
“Well, then,” said Wilton roundly, “when she wakes up and finds herself alone with a man in his laboratory in the middle of the night, she won’t like it, if she’s the girl I take her for. There ought to be another woman here.”
“But how can I get another woman at this hour of night?”
“I can get you one,” said Wilton, with a pleasant sensation of hidden archness. “You leave it to me. And when she comes you’d better clear out. You might go over to Rose’s house. Bats is there. And leave the patient and the woman I’ll send you to spend the night here. And in the morning our patient will be able to tell us a good many things, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Are you sure your woman is trustworthy?” asked Drelincourt, glancing at the sleeping girl in the lambskin. I couldn’t do with a fool, you know, in an affair like this.”
“Oh, she’s no fool,” said Wilton, hugging himself in his tact and sagacity. “She’ll be a pleasant surprise for you. Good night, old chap. No, not another word about this morning. I quite understand.”
Was it all innocent archness on Wilton’s part? Or was there, deep down in the subconsciousness, a desire to be even with Anthony for that morning’s outrage? Did Wilton feel anything? — he could have known nothing. Was it ingenuous friendship — or what was it? Those are questions which the doctor himself could not have answered, problems to which Anthony later tried in vain to find a solution.
Anyhow, what happened was this. Wilton walked quietly across the d
eserted yard of Malacca Wharf, and broke in on the talk of Bats and Rose with —
“The experiment has been successful. And Anthony wants you to go over for a moment. No, not you, Bats; it’s Rose he wants.”
“It’s me he wants?” said Rose; “... oh!”
“I didn’t think Rose cared so much,” Wilton commented, when Bats, having escorted her across the yard, came back silent and cross.
“I didn’t suppose you did,” Bats snapped, filling his pipe.
“I like giving people these little surprises,” said Wilton.
“Surprises?” Bats paused, pipe in hand, to ask.
“Of course I didn’t tell him it was Rose I was sending,” said Wilton, laughing triumphantly. “I said I’d send a woman.”
“God help all fools,” said Bats. “He didn’t know she was coming? You’ve tumbled Rose right into the middle of that?”
“I love doing little good turns to lovers,” said the doctor; “any one could see how the land lay between them. We won’t go to bed till he comes, will we? He’s coming across as soon as he’s seen the ‘woman’ I promised to send, and arranged for her to look after the revived person for the night. Won’t he be surprised? What’s up?”
For Bats had risen and made quietly for the door. But at the question he came slowly back.
“It’s too late now,” he said, “I can’t do anything,” and he felt for his matches.
“What do you want to do, you silly old interloper? “ said Wilton jovially; “it’s the crowning moment of Anthony’s life. Didn’t you know that he and Rose were keen on each other? I’ve seen it for ages. They’ll come to an understanding now, you’ll see. What a scene! The great experiment successful. The girl of his heart to tell all about it to. And the witching hour. It’s beautiful! It’s perfect! What luck that she happened to be here! It’s God’s own chance!”
“And you,” said Bats in silence, “are God’s own ass! And I’ve got to sit here and look at you. And she’s there. And Anthony will introduce her to the newcomer with, ‘Here’s a dead body come to life.’ And I can’t do anything. Oh, it’s a beautiful world, full of beautiful people. Damn!” he added thoughtfully and aloud.
“Burnt yourself? “ asked Wilton sympathetically.
CHAPTER XVII. LIES
ROSE, all aglow with joy that, in his triumph, it was to her he turned, that in the crowning moment of his life it was she whom he needed, ran lightly up the long stairs and tapped at the laboratory door.
“It’s me,” she called; “it’s Rose. May I come in?” To the last he was grateful to her for having called out. It gave him a moment’s grace, the moment which it takes to cross a room and open a door. Had she merely knocked, and had he, expecting a charwoman or district nurse, opened the door to find himself face to face with his betrothed, the situation might have slipped beyond his control. As it was he was able, the door safely closed between him and the girl who called him her love and clung to him as by right, to meet with some semblance of natural surprise and pleasure, the only woman who had a right to cling to him.
“My dearest Rose,” he said, quite as convincingly as he ever said it, “how splendid and how amazing,” and he held out his hands to her and kissed her. Never had the charade feeling been so strong.
“What’s happened to you?” he went on; “why aren’t you at Drelincourt? Is anything the matter? Did you want me?”
“Wake up,” she said, and pinched his ear. Yes, she had every right to pinch his ear, he reminded himself. “You’re in one of your dreams, dear. But even you can hardly have forgotten that you told Wilton to send me over, because — oh, Tony, I am so glad the experiment is a success. Let me come in, and tell me all about it.”
“Wilton seems to have told you,” he said, and wondered if Rose could help noticing the toneless quality his voice had suddenly taken on.
“Jealous?” she said. “Did he want to be the one to tell his own secrets?”
The agitation of the long journey, the reaction from anxiety to joy had shaken Rose into an intimate playfulness that Anthony had never seen in her before. He wondered why he had ever thought her strong and sensible. And she felt the impulse of repulsion in the weakening clasp of his hands.
“I’m wandering,” she said quickly; “of course Wilton didn’t tell me anything. He left it for you. He just told me you wanted me; that you’d succeeded. And I was very proud that you wanted me, at a time like this,” she ended, once more the Rose that he had always known, alert, competent, dignified..
“My dear girl,” he said, “I do want you. I always want you. And Wilton must have guessed that I did. And I suppose he knew you’d come up. Of course. They were waiting at your house. But in point of fact II — thought you were at Drelincourt. Why aren’t you?”
“Oh, I had to come up,” she answered impatiently; “don’t bother about trifles, Tony. Tell me what it is you’ve discovered, or succeeded in, or whatever it is. And do let’s go inside.”
“Not yet,” he said. “I want to tell you first. Wilton offered to send me a woman to help me in a little difficulty. I — But I’m keeping you standing, dear. You must be tired, the journey and all. Let’s sit down on the stairs.”
They sat down.
“I’m very glad it’s you he sent,” Anthony made himself say; “because of course I want above all things to tell you everything.” And as he spoke he cursed Wilton’s officious folly, and his own lying lips; and wondered desperately how little it would be safe to tell this girl who nestled confidently against him as they sat. “I trust you so completely,” he said, taking a perverse pleasure in elaborating the lie.
“Oh, don’t! wait a minute,” Rose said, and moved a little from him. The memory had come sharply to her of that time when she had sat on those stairs with William Bats, and how she had schemed to get Bats away so that she might spy and pry into Anthony’s laboratory, and surprise, if she could, and if there were any, his secrets.
“You oughtn’t to trust me,” she said; and told, in detail, why. To him the confession lacked interest, but his imagination helped him to forgive her gracefully.
“And now,” he said, “I want to tell you. My great discovery is this — at least this is part of it (his sudden snatch at truthfulness surprised and interested him) — I have found out how to bring to life people whom other people believe to be dead.”
“How splendid!”
“You know for thousands of years people have tried after this. You’ve heard of the Elixir of Life and things like that. Well, I’ve been trying it on for years, and I’ve succeeded. I succeeded with guinea-pigs and birds and a monkey.”
“Were they really dead?”
“Yes. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. And then a child that they thought was dead at the hospital. He’s alive and jolly now in the country. And then, it was yesterday, I got a telegram.”
“Who from?”
“One of the doctors at Guy’s,” lied Anthony readily, “a chap who’s followed my experiments with the greatest interest. And they wanted me to try another subject. It’s a woman who was given over for dead. And she’s here. And I’ve revived her. Wilton helped. She’s all right, but very exhausted and feeble. And then of course I wanted a woman to look after her. And Wilton said he’d send me one. I thought it would be a district nurse or something. And instead — it’s you! Wilton must have guessed — dear!” he said, and wondered at himself.
“But I can do anything a district nurse can do,” said Rose, her confidence in her own competence asserting itself. “And I’d love to help you. Let’s go to her, poor thing. Who is she? A poor woman, I suppose, as it’s a hospital case?”
“She’s a lady,” said Anthony, “and I think it’s rather a peculiar case. I have an idea who she may be; and if so, it’s a most extraordinary coincidence. She’s asleep now. But you see — of course, when she wakes she’ll feel a bit awkward in a strange place with no other woman. I ought to have thought of that and had some one here in readi
ness.”
“Your Guy’s doctor ought to have thought of that,” said Rose indignantly, “but it doesn’t matter. I’ll stay with her. Oh, Anthony! I can hardly believe it. They really thought she was dead. And you restored her. How splendid you are.”
She put her arm around his neck and kissed him in tender congratulation.
“It is rather jolly,” he said, and laughed. But he had to stop that at once.
“She’ll want clothes,” he said, “a night-gown and so on, and to-morrow some clothes must be bought for her. She’s in a sort of fancy dress. It was a sudden seizure, and that’s how — Oh, Rose!” he broke off suddenly, “I’m dog tired. Go over and get a night-dress for her and whatever you want yourself for the night. And don’t question her. She’s very feeble still, and it’s all rather mysterious. I am so tired.”
He leaned his head on Rose’s shoulder, as a tired child leans against its mother. “I can’t talk any more,” he said. “If I may sleep at your house — may I?”
She put her arm round his shoulders with a gentle protective gesture. “You poor boy; yes, of course. I’ll go at once, dear. No, don’t come with me. Go back to her. She might wake and be frightened at finding herself alone, poor old thing.”
“You think of everything,” he said, standing up with his hand on the door; “but she isn’t old. At least I don’t think so,” he added, and wondered why he could not have let well alone, when Rose said—”What it is to be a scientist! I wonder you ever realized that I wasn’t ninety.”
“I know I’m unobservant,” he said; “but she is young. I’m almost sure of it. You’ll bring hairpins and brushes and soap and sponges, and all the things women want for dressing, won’t you?”
“Don’t fuss,” she said, and went.
She would have liked her house to be spotlessly clean and ruthlessly tidy since Anthony was to have the run of it. And she knew too well that in every room but the parlour there would be sheaves of everything that ought to be neatly arranged, lying loose round. And there was no time to make her house neat for her lover’s eyes. Nevertheless, as she made the choice of things needed for her own toilet and that of the stranger and threw them into a bag, she hastily collected by the armful the odds and ends of clothing, drawings, and mixed litter that encumbered her rooms, threw them on to the bed, and when chests, tables, bureaux were all clear, knotted the quilt round the miscellaneous clearings, and dragged the bundle into a cupboard which she locked. She put fresh sheets on the bed and a clean quilt, hastily dusting the tops of things with her handkerchief.