Don't worry about anything. Keep quite quiet, and you'll soon be well."In a quarter of an hour, he was asleep. His wasted look went to her heart, and that expression of terror which had been coming and going until he fell asleep! Anything to do with the brain was so horrible! Only too clear that she must stay--that his recovery depended on her. She was still sitting there, motionless, when the doctor came, and, seeing him asleep, beckoned her out. He looked a kindly man, with two waistcoats, the top one unbuttoned; and while he talked, he winked at Gyp involuntarily, and, with each wink, Gyp felt that he ripped the veil off one more domestic secret. Sleep was the ticket--the very ticket for him! Had something on his mind--yes! And--er--a little given to--brandy? Ah! all that must stop! Stomach as well as nerves affected. Seeing things--nasty things--sure sign. Perhaps not a very careful life before marriage. And married--how long? His kindly appreciative eyes swept Gyp from top to toe. Year and a half! Quite so! Hard worker at his violin, too? No doubt! Musicians always a little inclined to be immoderate--too much sense of beauty--burn the candle at both ends! She must see to that. She had been away, had she not--staying with her father? Yes. But--no one like a wife for nursing. As to treatment? Well! One would shove in a dash of what he would prescribe, night and morning. Perfect quiet. No stimulant. A little cup of strong coffee without milk, if he seemed low. Keep him in bed at present. No worry; no excitement.
Young man still. Plenty of vitality. As to herself, no undue anxiety. To-morrow they would see whether a night nurse would be necessary. Above all, no violin for a month, no alcohol--in every way the strictest moderation! And with a last and friendliest wink, leaning heavily on that word "moderation," he took out a stylographic pen, scratched on a leaf of his note-book, shook Gyp's hand, smiled whimsically, buttoned his upper waistcoat, and departed.
Gyp went back to her seat by the bed. Irony! She whose only desire was to be let go free, was mainly responsible for his breakdown! But for her, there would be nothing on his mind, for he would not be married! Brooding morbidly, she asked herself--his drinking, debts, even the girl--had she caused them, too? And when she tried to free him and herself--this was the result! Was there something fatal about her that must destroy the men she had to do with? She had made her father unhappy, Monsieur Harmost--Rosek, and her husband! Even before she married, how many had tried for her love, and gone away unhappy! And, getting up, she went to a mirror and looked at herself long and sadly.
XX
Three days after her abortive attempt to break away, Gyp, with much heart-searching, wrote to Daphne Wing, telling her of Fiorsen's illness, and mentioning a cottage near Mildenham, where--if she liked to go--she would be quite comfortable and safe from all curiosity, and finally begging to be allowed to make good the losses from any broken dance-contracts.
Next morning, she found Mr. Wagge with a tall, crape-banded hat in his black-gloved hands, standing in the very centre of her drawing-room. He was staring into the garden, as if he had been vouchsafed a vision of that warm night when the moonlight shed its ghostly glamour on the sunflowers, and his daughter had danced out there.
She had a perfect view of his thick red neck in its turndown collar, crossed by a black bow over a shiny white shirt. And, holding out her hand, she said:
"How do you do, Mr. Wagge? It was kind of you to come."Mr. Wagge turned. His pug face wore a downcast expression.
"I hope I see you well, ma'am. Pretty place you 'ave 'ere. I'm fond of flowers myself. They've always been my 'obby.""They're a great comfort in London, aren't they?""Ye-es; I should think you might grow the dahlia here." And having thus obeyed the obscure instincts of savoir faire, satisfied some obscurer desire to flatter, he went on: "My girl showed me your letter. I didn't like to write; in such a delicate matter I'd rather be vivey vocey. Very kind, in your position; I'm sure Iappreciate it. I always try to do the Christian thing myself.
Flesh passes; you never know when you may have to take your turn.
I said to my girl I'd come and see you."
"I'm very glad. I hoped perhaps you would."
Mr. Wagge cleared his throat, and went on, in a hoarser voice:
"I don't want to say anything harsh about a certain party in your presence, especially as I read he's indisposed, but really I hardly know how to bear the situation. I can't bring myself to think of money in relation to that matter; all the same, it's a serious loss to my daughter, very serious loss. I've got my family pride to think of. My daughter's name, well--it's my own; and, though I say it, I'm respected--a regular attendant--I think I told you.
Sometimes, I assure you, I feel I can't control myself, and it's only that--and you, if I may say so, that keeps me in check."During this speech, his black-gloved hands were clenching and unclenching, and he shifted his broad, shining boots. Gyp gazed at them, not daring to look up at his eyes thus turning and turning from Christianity to shekels, from his honour to the world, from his anger to herself. And she said:
"Please let me do what I ask, Mr. Wagge. I should be so unhappy if I mightn't do that little something."Mr. Wagge blew his nose.
"It's a delicate matter," he said. "I don't know where my duty lays. I don't, reelly."Gyp looked up then.
"The great thing is to save Daisy suffering, isn't it?"Mr. Wagge's face wore for a moment an expression of affront, as if from the thought: 'Sufferin'! You must leave that to her father!'
Then it wavered; the curious, furtive warmth of the attracted male came for a moment into his little eyes; he averted them, and coughed. Gyp said softly:
"To please me."
Mr. Wagge's readjusted glance stopped in confusion at her waist.
He answered, in a voice that he strove to make bland:
