"Betty, darling, the tea's awfully cold! Please get me some more!"XFrom the day of the nurse's arrival, Winton gave up hunting. He could not bring himself to be out of doors for more than half an hour at a time. Distrust of doctors did not prevent him having ten minutes every morning with the old practitioner who had treated Gyp for mumps, measles, and the other blessings of childhood. The old fellow--his name was Rivershaw--was a most peculiar survival. He smelled of mackintosh, had round purplish cheeks, a rim of hair which people said he dyed, and bulging grey eyes slightly bloodshot. He was short in body and wind, drank port wine, was suspected of taking snuff, read The Times, spoke always in a husky voice, and used a very small brougham with a very old black horse.
But he had a certain low cunning, which had defeated many ailments, and his reputation for assisting people into the world stood extremely high. Every morning punctually at twelve, the crunch of his little brougham's wheels would be heard. Winton would get up, and, taking a deep breath, cross the hall to the dining-room, extract from a sideboard a decanter of port, a biscuit-canister, and one glass. He would then stand with his eyes fixed on the door, till, in due time, the doctor would appear, and he could say:
"Well, doctor? How is she?"
"Nicely; quite nicely."
"Nothing to make one anxious?"
The doctor, puffing out his cheeks, with eyes straying to the decanter, would murmur:
"Cardiac condition, capital--a little--um--not to matter. Taking its course. These things!"And Winton, with another deep breath, would say:
"Glass of port, doctor?"
An expression of surprise would pass over the doctor's face.
"Cold day--ah, perhaps--" And he would blow his nose on his purple-and-red bandanna.
Watching him drink his port, Winton would mark:
"We can get you at any time, can't we?"
And the doctor, sucking his lips, would answer:
"Never fear, my dear sir! Little Miss Gyp--old friend of mine. At her service day and night. Never fear!"A sensation of comfort would pass through Winton, which would last quite twenty minutes after the crunching of the wheels and the mingled perfumes of him had died away.
In these days, his greatest friend was an old watch that had been his father's before him; a gold repeater from Switzerland, with a chipped dial-plate, and a case worn wondrous thin and smooth--a favourite of Gyp's childhood. He would take it out about every quarter of an hour, look at its face without discovering the time, finger it, all smooth and warm from contact with his body, and put it back. Then he would listen. There was nothing whatever to listen to, but he could not help it. Apart from this, his chief distraction was to take a foil and make passes at a leather cushion, set up on the top of a low bookshelf. In these occupations, varied by constant visits to the room next the nursery, where--to save her the stairs--Gyp was now established, and by excursions to the conservatory to see if he could not find some new flower to take her, he passed all his time, save when he was eating, sleeping, or smoking cigars, which he had constantly to be relighting.
By Gyp's request, they kept from him knowledge of when her pains began. After that first bout was over and she was lying half asleep in the old nursery, he happened to go up. The nurse--a bonny creature--one of those free, independent, economic agents that now abound--met him in the sitting-room. Accustomed to the "fuss and botheration of men" at such times, she was prepared to deliver him a little lecture. But, in approaching, she became affected by the look on his face, and, realizing somehow that she was in the presence of one whose self-control was proof, she simply whispered:
"It's beginning; but don't be anxious--she's not suffering just now. We shall send for the doctor soon. She's very plucky"; and with an unaccustomed sensation of respect and pity she repeated:
"Don't be anxious, sir."
"If she wants to see me at any time, I shall be in my study. Save her all you can, nurse."The nurse was left with a feeling of surprise at having used the word "Sir"; she had not done such a thing since--since--! And, pensive, she returned to the nursery, where Gyp said at once:
"Was that my father? I didn't want him to know."The nurse answered mechanically:
"That's all right, my dear."
"How long do you think before--before it'll begin again, nurse?
I'd like to see him."
The nurse stroked her hair.
"Soon enough when it's all over and comfy. Men are always fidgety."Gyp looked at her, and said quietly:
"Yes. You see, my mother died when I was born."The nurse, watching those lips, still pale with pain, felt a queer pang. She smoothed the bed-clothes and said:
"That's nothing--it often happens--that is, I mean,--you know it has no connection whatever."And seeing Gyp smile, she thought: 'Well, I am a fool.'
"If by any chance I don't get through, I want to be cremated; Iwant to go back as quick as I can. I can't bear the thought of the other thing. Will you remember, nurse? I can't tell my father that just now; it might upset him. But promise me."And the nurse thought: 'That can't be done without a will or something, but I'd better promise. It's a morbid fancy, and yet she's not a morbid subject, either.' And she said:
"Very well, my dear; only, you're not going to do anything of the sort. That's flat."Gyp smiled again, and there was silence, till she said:
"I'm awfully ashamed, wanting all this attention, and making people miserable. I've read that Japanese women quietly go out somewhere by themselves and sit on a gate."The nurse, still busy with the bedclothes, murmured abstractedly:
"Yes, that's a very good way. But don't you fancy you're half the trouble most of them are. You're very good, and you're going to get on splendidly." And she thought: 'Odd! She's never once spoken of her husband. I don't like it for this sort--too perfect, too sensitive; her face touches you so!'
Gyp murmured again:
