be allowed to take care of him, and to do what can be done."
She paused a moment.
"I am so glad you have come," she said; "it was dear of you to start at once like that. Did Papa Jack want you not to go?"
"My dear, he hurried me off to that extent that I left the only bag that mattered behind."
"That was nice of him. They have been so hopeless, all of them here, because they didn't understand. Berts has been looking like a funeral all day, the sort with plumes. And Edith has been running in and out with soup for me, soup and mince and glasses of port I think—I think Seymour understood though, because he was quite cheerful and normal. Oh, Mama, if Hughie only lives, I will marry Seymour as a thank-offering."
Dodo looked at her daughter in amazement.
"Not if Seymour understands," she said.
Nadine frowned.
"It's the devil's own mess," she observed.
"But the devil never cleans up his messes," said Dodo. "That's what we learn by degrees. He makes them, and we clean them up. More or less, that is to say."
She paused a moment, and flung the spirit of her speech from her.
"I don't mean that," she said. "It is truer to say that God makes beautiful things, and we spoil them. And then He makes them beautiful again. It is only people who can't see at all, that see the other aspect of it. I think they call them realists—I know it ends in 'ist.' But it doesn't matter what you call them. They are wrong. We have got to hold our hearts high, and let them beat, and let ourselves enjoy and be happy and taste things to the full. It is easier to be miserable, my dear, for most people. We are the lucky ones. Oh, if I had been a charwoman, like that thing in the play, with a husband who stole and was sent to prison, I should have found something to be happy about. Probably a large diamond in the grate, which I should have sold without being traced."
These remarkable statements were not made without purpose. Dodo knew quite well that courage and patience and cheerfulness would be needed by Nadine, and she was willing to talk the most outrageous nonsense to give the sense of vitality to her, to make her see that no great happening like this, whatever the end, was a thing to moan and brood over. It must be taken with much more than resignation—a quality which she despised—and with hardly less than gaiety. Such at any rate was her private human gospel, which she found had not served her so badly.
"I have quite missed my vocation," she said. "I ought to have been born in poverty-stricken and criminal classes to show the world that being hungry does not make you unhappy any more than having three diamond tiaras makes you happy. You've got that birthright, Nadine, live up to it. Never anticipate trouble, and if it comes embrace and welcome it: it is part of life, and thus it becomes your friend. Oh, I wish I had been here this morning! I would have shouted for glee to see that darling Hughie go churning out to sea. I am jealous of you. Just think: if Papa Jack had come a-wooing of you, as I really thought he might be doing in the summer, you would have married him and I should be looking after Hughie. Isn't that like me? I want everybody's good times myself."
These amazing statements were marvelously successful.
"I won't give my good time away even to you," said Nadine.
"No, you are sharper than a serpent's tooth. Now, darling, we will go very quietly along the passage, and just see if Hughie is asleep. I should so like to wake him up—I know he is asleep—in order to tell him how splendid it all is. Don't be frightened: I'm not going to. We will just go to the door, and that enormous nurse whom I saw peering over the banisters, will tell us to go away. And then I shall go to dress for dinner, and you will too—"
"Oh, Mama, I can't come down to dinner," said Nadine.
"Yes, dear, you can and you will. There's going to be no sadness in my house. If you don't, I shall send Edith up to you with mince and her 'cello and soup. Oh, Nadine, and it was all just for a little stupid boy, who very likely would have been better dead. He will now probably grow up, and be an anxiety to his parents, if he's got any—they usually haven't—and come to a bad and early end. What a great world!"
Chapter XI
Nadine enquired at Hugh's door again that night before she went to bed, and found that he was still asleep. She had promised her mother not to sit up, but as she undressed she almost smiled at the uselessness of going to bed, so impossible did it seem that sleep should come near her. After her one outburst of crying, she had felt no further agitation, for something so big and so quiet had entered her heart that all poignancy of anxiety and suspense were powerless to disturb it. As has been said, it was scarcely even whether Hugh lived or died that mattered: the only thing that mattered was Hugh. Had she been compelled to say whether she believed he would live or not, she would have given the negative. And yet there was a quality of peace in her that could not be shaken. It was a peace that humbled and exalted her. It wrapped her round very close, and yet she looked up to it, as to a mountain-peak on which dawn has broken.
Despite her conviction that sleep was impossible, she had hardly closed her eyes, when it embraced and swallowed up all her consciousness. This cyclone of emotion, in the center of which dwelt the windless calm, had utterly tired her out, though she was unaware of fatigue, and her rest was dreamless. Then suddenly she was aware that there was light in the room, and that she was being spoken to, and she passed from unconsciousness back to the full possession of her faculties, as swiftly as they had been surrendered. She found Dodo bending over her.
"Come, my darling," she said.
Nadine had no need to ask any question, but as she put on her slippers and dressing-gown Dodo spoke again.
"He has been awake for an hour and asking for you," she said. "The nurse and the doctor are with him: they think you had better come. It is possible that if he sees you there, he may go off to sleep again. But it is possible—you are not afraid, darling?"
Nadine's mouth quivered into something very like a smile.
"Afraid of Hughie?" she asked.
They went up the stairs, and along the passage together. The moon that last night had been hidden by the tempest of storm-clouds, or perhaps blown away from the sky by the wind, now rode high and cloudlessly amid a multitude of stars. No wind moved across those ample floors: only from the beach they heard the plunge and thunder of the sea that could not so easily resume its tranquillity. The moonlight came through the window of Hugh's room also, making on the floor a shadow-map of the bars.
He was lying again with his face towards the door, but now his eyes were vacantly open, and his whole face had changed. There was an agony of weariness over it, and from his eyes there looked out a dumb, unavailing rebellion. Before they had got to the door they had heard a voice inside speaking, a voice that Nadine did not recognize. It kept saying over and over again, "Nadine, Nadine."
As she came across the room to the bed, he looked straight at her, but it was clear he did not see her, and the monotonous, unrecognizable voice went on saying, "Nadine, Nadine."
The doctor was standing by the head of the bed, looking intently at Hugh, but doing nothing: the nurse was at the foot.
He signed to Nadine to come, and took a step towards her.
"You've
