boom of the Atlantic waves sounded against the shrill voices of those smart women as a bassoon sounds against a violin. Ay! and in the winter sou'-westers, the rush and hush of the sea blent with the rush and hush of the leaves. He could imagine Betty Cam--h'm, that was Helen's fault for being so tragic! He looked round for her, and saw her talking to Dr. Ramsay. Ted also was well employed, hanging on Mr. Hirsch's lips as he spoke airily of bulls and bears. Ted, if he didn't take care, would become a zoologist also!
So thought Ned Blackborough as he wandered away from the lawns that were still kept smooth and green, towards the wilderness of garden beyond. And the thought of money bringing the thought of Aura, he smiled, lit a cigar, and went still further afield to find a certain peach tree that used to have peaches on it.
The others were happy, why should he not have his share of enjoyment?
As a matter of fact, however, Helen and Dr. Ramsay were not enjoying themselves; at least she was not, for he had met her assertion that the one wish of her life ("since my husband's death seven years ago," being interpolated with the usual note of resigned reverence in her voice) had been to be a hospital nurse, with a dubious shake of the head.
"I wouldn't if I were you," he said slowly. "I rather doubt your being fit for it. One requires a lot of stamina."
She stared at him almost haughtily. "But I am very strong, I assure you," she replied, with a smile of great tolerance, "I daresay I look pale--for the Cornish coast; but, oh! I am very strong!"
"Physically, perhaps." His Scotch accent gave the qualification great precision.
"Then, mentally----" she almost gasped.
"Mentally, no," he replied quite calmly.
"Excuse me," she remarked, "but I really do not think you know me well enough."
"Do I not?" he remarked, his brown eyes smiling into hers; "you forget that I am a doctor, and, Mrs. Tressilian, your nervous system is at the present moment--mind you, it's no blame--in absolutely unstable equilibrium."
"Unstable equilibrium! Really, Dr. Ramsay"
"My dear lady," he said, "I have been thinking all lunchtime that if you would only allow yourself to be hypnotised, you would be clairvoyant. I shouldn't wonder if you would be able to project yourself! and think what that might mean! Why, you might give us a clue----" he paused quite excited.
"And what has that to do with nursing?" she asked coldly.
"It makes for a temperament that is too--what shall I call it?--unpractical. You have a gift--a great gift--but it is not for nursing; you are too sentimental."
"And how do you arrive at that conclusion?" she asked, interested in spite of herself.
"Excuse me!" He touched the muslin cuff she wore with a hand she could not help admiring: it was so shapely, so strong, so skilful-looking, albeit so small for a man of his height.
Yet her eyes flashed a quick challenge at him. "You mean that it is sentimental and unpractical to mourn those one loves. I do not agree with you."
The sunlight glinting through his eyes turned them almost to amber. There was a world of gentle raillery in them at which, however, it was impossible to be angry.
"To wear your heart on your sleeve?--yes," he replied. "Ah, Mrs. Tressilian, believe me, you are lost to the world! What a wife you would have made with your ardent imagination to some grovelling slave tied down, as I am, by the nose, to the body of things! But that is another story, and so is clairvoyance, though in your present state I'm convinced you could see. The point at issue remains that----" he paused.
"Well!" she asked almost eagerly.
He laughed. "My patients say I prescribe Paradise, when I beg them not to fash themselves. But there is one thing I have found out. I can't tell you why, but worry stops the working of the vital machine. It gets into the cogs somehow and clogs the wheels. Then you fall back on reserve-force, and having exhausted that, feel exhausted. We doctors nowadays are helpless before the feeling of hustle. We prescribe rest-cures, but you can worry as much, perhaps more, on the flat of the back! The remedy lies with the patient. And you have so much imagination, Mrs. Tressilian. Used cheerfully, it is the most valuable therapeutic agent we have. Ah! here comes your father. Some of the hotel people want to take us all back to tea, and I expect he is coming to ask you about it."
She looked at him steadily, but he showed no consciousness, and she turned to meet Sir Geoffrey feeling baffled. She had known about and had meant to avoid this tea; but something in the very directness of Dr. Ramsay's unsought diagnosis roused her to show him its incorrectness.
Anyhow she found herself rather to her disgust not only going to the hotel, but going in the front seat of Mr. Hirsch's motor.
And once in the wide, south-western verandah--which was built so close to the perpendicular cliff that leaning over the balustrade you could see nothing but the sea--while the salt wind clung to her cheek like the fierce kiss of a lover, bringing with it an unwonted flush of colour, she was forced to admit that the place had its charms; that it was not all vulgarised. There was laughter and music, of course (both of them loud), about the tea-tables, but at the further end comparative peace reigned around the couch of an invalid lady, whose little girl was apparently a great friend of Sir Geoffrey's. He was always so good to children, she remembered with a pang, picturing herself as she was at little Maidie's age.
The child's mother, Amy Massingham, was very dark--dark, with those large lustrous eyes, and very white teeth, which suggest Indian blood; and she must have been beautiful before languor and pallor had come instead of rich colour and vivacity. Still, even at her best she could never have touched the exceeding brightness and beauty of her little daughter Maidie. She was incomparable. A little vivid tropical bird flitting about Sir Geoffrey, chattering, her small round face glowing with brilliant tints, sparkling, dimpling, her teeth showing in a flash of smiles that seemed to irradiate her body and soul, while her cloud of dark hair, still golden bronze at its curly tips, floated about with her.
She was like a ripe pomegranate, yellow and red-brown in her dainty little yellow silk frock.
Perched now on Sir Geoffrey's long lap, she was stroking his soft moleskin knees, and swinging herself backwards and forwards rhythmically.
"And when daddie comes from India," she insisted, "we won't go 'way and leave 'oo, Sir Geoffley, will we, mumsie? We'em goin' to stop at Seaview always, an' always, an' always. Ain't we, mums?"
Amy Massingham smiled gently: she did everything so very gently that she failed, as it were, to do anything at all. Her impact was not strong enough to move any fixed object.
"Well, my precious! It would be delightful, and dear Sir Geoffrey is so kind, isn't he? but I'm afraid dadda can't manage it. You see, Mrs. Tressilian, darling old Dick is only home on short leave--really only to see me--but his people will want to have him first thing."
"Oh, mumsie! We'se goin' to have him the firstest thing of all," protested Maidie, who was now on the floor, fondling the big curly retriever who was always Sir Geoffrey's shadow, "for his ship'll pass over there--right over there, don't you see, Mrs. T'sllian."
She was by this time leaning over the balustrade beside Helen and looked up at her--such a sparkling, brilliant little maid!--with fearless eye. Something in the childless woman's heart went out to her, and beyond her again to the grave far away under the orange-trees of the man who was dying
