“Are you particularly busy just now?” he suddenly enquired.
“Not at all,” said Cecily, startled.
“Then may I have a word with you? About this change of air, and so on,” he added, as if to reassure her.
“Won’t you come up to the drawing-room? Will you—will you have some tea?” Cecily asked doubtfully.
Monica, too, would have felt doubtful at making such a suggestion, but Dr. Corderey was apparently not doubtful at all, and he accepted the offer briefly and matter-of-factly.
Cecily poured out tea with fumbling, ill-assured gestures, and the doctor handed tea-cakes and bread-and-butter. He talked quietly on indifferent subjects.
Monica began to feel that she liked him. Not quite—quite, of course, but he seemed nice, and very kind, and she had an idea, for which she could have offered no reasonable grounds, that he must be clever.
He began to speak, about books, and she found, to her great surprise, that he had been lending books to Cecily. Poetry. He asked Cecily’s opinion, and she gave it. Monica realized that it was almost the only time she had ever heard Cecily assert an independent view of her own. Perhaps she had held independent views in her own mind—but she had not hitherto dared to put them into words.
“Do you read a great deal, Miss Marlowe?”
“Not a great deal—I garden—at home,” said Cecily.
“At home—that’s in Yorkshire. Are you there most of the time?”
“Yes. We like it better than London,” said Cecily quickly.
“You and your sister. Tell me, have you ever been separated from your sister?”
“No,” said Cecily, colouring deeply, her hands moving uneasily.
“You were never sent to school, either of you?”
“Oh no.”
“Well,” said the doctor abruptly, “it’s a great pity.”
Monica felt as though he had suddenly caused a bomb to explode at their feet.
In the mysterious world of morbid reticences, artificial loyalties, and tortured nervous sensibilities that made up life for Frederica and Cecily Marlowe it was never admitted that they could ever have been better apart.
“You see,” said the doctor, and he now addressed himself to Monica rather than to Cecily, “the very best thing for Miss Marlowe, when she’s a little stronger, would be to get right away. She’s not in a satisfactory condition, as regards her nerves. In fact, I should very much like to persuade Lady Marlowe to let her take a—kind of rest-cure, in the country, at a place I know well. But Miss Marlowe is a difficult patient, and she’s got you————” he indicated Cecily, “very much on her mind. So what I want to be able to tell her, is that you’ve arranged a pleasant change of some kind for yourself. Then perhaps her mind would be at rest, and we could get her to pay rather more attention to what we want for her.”
“Is Frederica very ill?” said Monica, puzzled. “Is there much wrong with her?”
“She’s getting over her influenza very nicely.”
“But is there something else?”
The nervous movements of Cecily’s hands had ceased, and at Monica’s question she lifted her head, and met Dr. Corderey’s gaze in full.
“I think, please, I’d like to know exactly what you mean.”
“Really?” he asked, with a peculiar emphasis.
Monica did not understand what he meant, but she saw that Cecily did.
“Yes, really.”
Dr. Corderey, never taking his eyes off Cecily’s face, began to speak very slowly and evenly.
“Your sister is not very far off a bad nervous breakdown. We can stave it off, of course—this illness has probably done so. But sooner or later, it’ll happen, if she goes on living this kind of life. She’s a naturally nervous, highly-strung subject, and from what I can tell she has had no emotional outlet for years—if ever.”
“Except—me,” said Cecily, very low.
“Except you. I’m glad you spoke of that because, you see,” said Dr. Corderey, very cheerfully, “I want to save you, if I possibly can, from her.”
“But you can’t,” said Cecily. “No one can.” She began to cry.
“Cecily! Don’t!” Monica cried anxiously. She only half understood what was happening.
“Don’t stop her. Let her cry, if she wants to,” said the doctor.
He got up and stood beside Cecily’s shaking figure, huddled on the sofa, and took her wrist professionally between his finger and thumb.
“Let her have it out. It won’t do her any harm. Do you know anything about sick nursing?”
“No,” said Monica.
“I suppose you were never sent to school either, and you live at home, and have nothing to do—except what you make for yourself—and if you were forced to earn your own living to-morrow, you’d have to starve.”
Monica, for an instant, felt offended, because she knew that her mother would think she ought to be offended. But he had spoken with so much sincerity that she could not pretend to disagree.
“It’s quite true.”
“It’s true of hundreds of others too. Thousands, I expect. Women come to me with every sort and kind of trouble—insomnia, and indigestion, and other things—and I do what I can for them. But what’s really the matter with them is that they’re unhappy. It’s mind, not body.”
He released Cecily’s hand, and pushed her gently back amongst the sofa-cushions.
“It’s all right. Keep still for a few minutes. Tell me, Miss Ingram, could you get away from London for a week or two?”
“I think so.” Monica considered. “Go somewhere with Cecily, you mean?”
“Yes. Abroad if you like. Switzerland—any bracing places.”
Monica felt no certainty of obtaining her mother’s permission. As long as she remained unmarried she would be regarded by her parents as requiring supervision.
Cecily raised her disfigured face.
“We shouldn’t be allowed to go abroad, I don’t think,” she said simply. “Not by ourselves.”
“Do you never do anything that you’re not allowed to do?” the doctor enquired.
“Not often,” Cecily admitted, smiling faintly.
“Then it’s a very great pity. I’d like to see you rebel against everything that you’ve ever been told and defy everyone and—and generally throw your cap over the windmill. Perhaps,” suggested Dr. Corderey, “some day, I shall?”
Cecily shook her head.
The tear-stains on her face, curiously enough, made her look very young.
“Well, think about what I’ve said. I want you to go right away somewhere with a friend of your own, and have a thorough change.”
“But Frederica——”
“I’ll look after Frederica,” said the doctor curtly, and seeming unaware that he was referring to the daughter of the house by her Christian name.
Almost immediately afterwards he went away.
“Would you really like to go away somewhere, Cecily? You’ve never been anywhere without Frederica, have you?”
“Never.”
“I don’t suppose she’d—like it, would she? I mean, she’s rather jealous of your having anything to do with anybody else.”
“Yes, I know.”
It was evident that Cecily, as usual, was either unwilling, or unable, to commit herself.
Monica did not repeat anything that Dr. Corderey had said at home. She thought about it very often, and could not decide whether she agreed with Dr. Corderey, or distrusted him as her mother would have done. The idea sometimes crossed her mind that, if he had been a gentleman—she meant, someone belonging to her own world—she might have fallen in love with him. Some thought of the kind went through Monica’s mind with reference to every unmarried man that she ever met, but she was scarcely aware of it, any more than she realized that whenever she bowed to the new moon, or ate the first strawberry of the year, the automatic formula that sprang to her lips was always: “I wish to be engaged to be married.”
&nbs
p; No suggestion came from Belgrave Square, and Monica hoped that none might. She did not in the least want to go away into the country with Cecily Marlowe, and she was certain that they would not be allowed to go abroad together. And even if they were, nothing would happen. Cecily was not the kind of person with whom anything ever did happen.
Even now, Monica instinctively disassociated herself from Frederica and Cecily, when she thought in terms of romantic adventure. She could not believe herself to be as unattractive, as lacking in all magnetism, as she felt them to be.
Only sometimes, lying awake at night, she realized with terror that the years were slipping by—and no one had wanted to marry her.
“What ridiculous nonsense!” said Mrs. Ingram.
“What, mother?”
Even Vernon Ingram looked at his wife across the breakfast table and enquired also: “What is it, dear?”
“Poor Theodora Marlowe—as if she hadn’t had worry enough over those two tiresome girls! Though it’s absurd to call them girls, I’m sure. She writes very amusingly—she’s always amusing—but I can see she’s vexed. Dr. Corderey, if you please, has taken upon himself to give her some extremely unnecessary, and rather impertinent, advice about Frederica and Cecily.”
“What advice?” asked Monica, remembering the little scene that she had witnessed in the Belgrave Square drawing-room.
“Some modern nonsense, darling, about nerves and fancies. He thinks it’s very bad for them to be together all the time, as of course they are, and he wants Frederica to do a rest-cure, or something of the kind. He told Lady Marlowe that Cecily ought to be given a chance to get right away, on her own, and find something to do. As if there was anything she could do!”
“But, mother—they are rather odd, both of them. Perhaps it really would be a good thing—?’’—
“The only thing that would do either of them any good would be to find a husband,” said Mrs. Ingram calmly. “And I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance of that. I wish old Dr. Bruce had attended them himself, instead of sending this absurd young man. There’s one thing, he’ll never get sent for again. Lady Marlowe is very much annoyed with him.”
Monica could quite well believe it. She knew that Lady Marlowe was quite unaccustomed to criticism, and would resent it the more where her two unsatisfactory daughters were concerned.
She sent for Frederica and the hospital nurse to join her at Brighton, and ordered Cecily to return to Yorkshire.
“I can’t have two unmarried daughters trailing about the Metropole Hotel after me,” wrote Lady Marlowe, very decidedly, to Mrs. Ingram. “Why on earth couldn’t even one of them have been a son?”
Why indeed, wondered Monica. People were proud of their sons, whether they married or not. No woman minded being seen about with a son—far from it. But daughters, she knew, were a very different thing. Even one daughter was bad enough.
After Frederica and the nurse had gone to Brighton and Cecily had returned, unprotesting, to Yorkshire and the company of the permanently resident ex-governess there, Monica’s daily life went on, undisturbed by any event of importance.
Chapter V
Then, quite suddenly, there was an accident.
Monica’s father, returning from the Club one evening as usual, was knocked down by a taxi in the street.
Vernon Ingram was brought home unconscious.
He lay in a darkened room, knowing nothing, and in a moment, as it seemed, the lives of all of them had altered.
Nothing was of importance now excepting the life that was threatened. Examination revealed internal injuries, and it was feared that they were grave.
Monica sat downstairs, and answered the telephone, and wrote notes, and occasionally saw some of the people who came daily to enquire.
Most of them were relations, elderly and depressing.
On the third afternoon Monica was by herself, oppressed and unhappy, and vaguely wishing that Carol Anderson would come.
A card was brought in to her and her spirit knew a moment’s lightening. She took it up eagerly and read the name of Mr. Pelham.
“Mr. Pelham asked if you would see him for a few minutes, Miss.”
“Very well. Show him up.”
She was disappointed, but it would be a relief to talk to anybody.
Mr. Pelham’s gravity was habitual, and it was only slightly deepened as he came into the room and limply shook Monica’s hand.
“How is he?”
“The same, thank you. He’s conscious now—more or less. He was concussed, you know, as well as being hurt in—other ways.”
Monica had repeated these, and similar, phrases so often that she hardly felt as though she knew what she was saying.
“It must be a most anxious time for you. How is your mother?”
“She’s wonderful,” Monica repeated mechanically. “She’s with him now. Of course there’s a nurse as well.”
“Of course.”
“Won’t you sit down? I dare say mother will be down in a few minutes. I asked them to let her know you were here.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Pelham sat down, with his habitual gesture of carefully pulling up the knees of his trousers.
“What exactly happened? It was a cab, wasn’t it?”
“As far as we know——” began Monica.
She recapitulated the story of the accident. She had been asked the same questions, and had given the same replies, many times in the past three days.
“I see,” said Mr. Pelham at intervals, and “Really—yes—I suppose so,” in a concerned voice.
His prawn-like eyes were fixed, inexpressively, upon Monica’s face, and from time to time he nodded as if to show that he was paying attention to all she said.
Monica, as a matter of fact, had no doubts at all of his attention. She knew that Mr. Pelham had an extremely and unusually retentive memory. He often surprised her by reminding her of quite trivial conversations that they had exchanged in the course of the years that they had known one another.
“These cases of concussion are most curious. I remember a cousin of mine, once——”
Monica listened, rather wearily. Almost everyone had had some similar instance, a case of concussion, about which to tell her. Mr. Pelham’s cousin had fallen on the back of his head, skating at Prince’s….
Monica, in her turn, said “Yes” and “I see.”
In spite of herself, her thoughts wandered.
Carol had telephoned enquiries twice, and on the last occasion she had spoken to him, and said that she would like to see him. He had promised to come that afternoon, and she hoped he would not arrive until Mr. Pelham had gone.
Mr. Pelham was in no haste to go. He was always apt to pay lengthy visits, and Monica had rashly admitted that she had nothing to do.
At last she felt obliged to offer him tea.
“Thank you—that’s very kind of you. But I don’t wish—I know you must have letters to write—or perhaps you’re wanted upstairs?”
“No,” said Monica. “He doesn’t really want anyone, you know. He’s under morphia most of the time. To-morrow the doctors are hoping to make a more thorough examination, to see what can be done.”
“Ah yes. I see.”
Mr. Pelham looked graver than ever. He did not attempt to go away.
Just as tea was brought in, Carol Anderson came. His warm, long pressure of the hand brought a faint sensation of comfort to Monica. His questions were almost the same as those of Mr. Pelham, but he put them with an effect of urgency, and there was nothing inexpressive in the gaze that he fastened upon Monica whilst she replied.
“I’m so sorry for you,” he said gently. “It must be dreadful for you. Is there anything in the world that I can do to help you, Monica?”
There was nothing, and she said so. But his earnestness had comforted her. She felt that he cared deeply about what had happened, for her sake.
Mrs. Ingram came down to tea looking pale and exhausted. The same thi
ngs were said, again and again, by them all. She repeated that there was little change in her husband’s condition. The doctors were hoping to make a further examination next day.
“At least he’s not in pain. That’s my great comfort,” she kept on saying.
“It’s wonderful what can be done nowadays,” Mr. Pelham reiterated with equal persistence.
Carol Anderson carried a cup of tea to Monica, and made her the object of his care, telling her gently in an undertone that she must eat something. His solicitiude touched her, and sent a thrill of happiness through her.
“You won’t go just yet, will you?” she murmured, looking up at him.
She meant that she hoped he would outstay Mr. Pelham.
“Of course I’ll stay, if you’ll let me. I want to,” he replied gently.
Monica was almost ashamed of the quick response that his words, and still more his look, woke in her. She wanted to think only of her father, not of herself, nor even of Carol Anderson in relation to herself. But as long as he remained beside her, saying very little but every now and then looking at her anxiously and affectionately, she knew that she was happy.
She hoped urgently that when her mother made a move to return upstairs again, Mr. Pelham would go.
Mrs. Ingram however sat on in the corner of the sofa, finding relaxation in the change of atmosphere.
At last Mr. Pelham said, “Well——” in a tentative fashion, and sketched a movement towards rising.
“I suppose I ought to be going. Please let me know if there’s any—any change. Perhaps you’ll allow me to come round to-morrow?”
Mrs. Ingram assented. Monica was only intent on seeing him go away.
“Good-bye. I do so hope that you’ll have better news in the morning.”
He had shaken hands—the moist limpness of his touch was always faintly distasteful to Monica—and her mother had signed to her to ring the bell, in order that the servants might know he was going.
“Good-bye—so kind of you to come.”
Mrs. Ingram did not sit down again when Mr. Pelham had made his exit. She remained as though uncertain, standing in the middle of the room.
“Shall I take your place for a little while, and send nurse downstairs?” Monica suggested.
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