she asked.
Mrs. Vivian drew her back into her seat.
"I will tell you all," she said. "He has had a dangerous fall hunting, and it is very serious. The doctors are with him. There is some internal injury, and he is to have an operation. It is the only chance of saving his life, and even then it is a very slender one. He is quite conscious, and asked me to tell you. You will not be able to see him for half an hour. The operation is going on now."
Dodo sat perfectly still. She did not speak a word; she scarcely even thought anything. Everything seemed to be a horrible blank to her.
"Ah God, ah God!" she burst out at last. "Can't I do anything to help? I would give my right hand to help him. It is all too horrible. To think that I—" She walked up and down the room, and then suddenly opened the door and went downstairs. She paced up and down the drawing-room, paused a moment, and went into his study. His papers were lying about in confusion on the table, but on the top was a guide-book to the Riviera. Dodo remembered his buying this at Mentone on their wedding-tour, and conscientiously walking about the town sight-seeing. She sat down in his chair and took it up. She remembered also that he had bought her that day a new volume of poems which had just come out, and had read to her out of it. There was in it a poem called "Paris and Helen." He had read that among others, and had said to her, as they were being rowed back to the yacht again that evening, "That is you and I, Dodo, going home."
On the fly-leaf of the guide-book he had written it out, and, as she sat there now, Dodo read it.
As o'er the swelling tides we slip
That know not wave nor foam,
Behold the helmsman of our ship,
Love leads us safely home.
His ministers around us move
To aid the westering breeze,
He leads us softly home, my love,
Across the shining seas.
My golden Helen, day and night
Love's light is o'er us flung,
Each hour for us is infinite,
And all the world is young.
There is none else but thou and I
Beneath the heaven's high dome,
Love's ministers around us fly,
Love leads us safely home.
Dodo buried her face in her hands with a low cry. "I have been cruel and wicked," she sobbed to herself. "I have despised the best that any man could ever give me, and I can never make him amends. I will tell him all. I will ask him to forgive me. Oh, poor Chesterford, poor Chesterford!"
She sat there sobbing in complete misery. She saw, as she had never seen before, the greatness of his love for her, and her wretched, miserable return for his gift.
"It is all over; I know he will die," she sobbed. "Supposing he does not know me—supposing he dies before I can tell him. Oh, my husband, my husband, live to forgive me!"
She was roused by a touch on her shoulder. Mrs. Vivian stood by her.
"You must be quick, Dodo," she said. "There is not much time."
Dodo did not answer her, but went upstairs. Before the bedroom door she stopped.
"I must speak to him alone," she said. "Send them all out."
"They have gone into the dressing-room," said Mrs. Vivian; "he is alone."
Dodo stayed no longer, but went in.
He was lying facing the door, and the shadow of death was on his face. But he recognised Dodo, and smiled and held out his hand.
Dodo ran to the bedside and knelt by it.
"Oh, Chesterford," she sobbed, "I have wronged you cruelly, and I can never make it up. I will tell you all."
"There is no need," said he; "I knew it all along."
Dodo raised her head. "You knew it all?" she asked.
"Yes, dear," he said; "it was by accident that I knew it."
"And you behaved to me as usual," said Dodo.
"Yes, my darling," said he; "you wouldn't have had me beat you, would you? Don't speak of it—there is not much time."
"Ah, forgive me, forgive me!" she cried. "How could I have done it?"
"It was not a case of forgiving," he said. "You are you, you are Dodo. My darling, there is not time to say much. You have been very good to me, and have given me more happiness than I ever thought I could have had."
"Chesterford! Chesterford!" cried Dodo pleadingly.
"Yes, darling," he answered; "my own wife. Dodo, I shall see the boy soon, and we will wait for you together. You will be mine again then. There shall be no more parting."
Dodo could not answer him. She could only press his hand and kiss his lips, which were growing very white.
It was becoming a fearful effort for him to speak. The words came slowly with long pauses.
"There is one more thing," he said. "You must marry Jack. You must make him very happy—as you have made me."
"Ah, don't say that," said Dodo brokenly; "don't cut me to the heart."
"My darling," he said, "my sweet own wife, I am so glad you told me. It has cleared up the only cloud. I wondered whether you would tell me. I prayed God you might, and He has granted it me. Good-bye, my own darling, good-bye."
Dodo lay in his arms, and kissed him passionately.
"Good-bye, dear," she sobbed.
He half raised himself in bed.
"Ah, my Dodo, my sweet wife," he said.
Then he fell back and lay very still.
How long Dodo remained there she did not know. She remembered Mrs. Vivian coming in and raising her gently, and they left the darkened room together.
Chapter Fifteen
Picture to yourself, or let me try to picture for you, a long, low, rambling house, covering a quite unnecessary area of ground, with many gables, tall, red-brick chimneys, unexpected corners, and little bow windows looking out from narrow turrets-a house that looks as if it had grown, rather than been designed and built. It began obviously with that little grey stone section, which seems to consist of small rooms with mullion windows, over which the ivy has asserted so supreme a dominion. The next occupant had been a man who knew how to make himself comfortable, but did not care in the least what sort of appearance
