Jeannie tapped at the bed-room door, and Ph?be’s voice answered her quite cheerfully.

“I was just coming down, Miss Avesham,” she said; “I should have come down before, but I just waited to collect myself. Now, please tell me truly. Dr. Maitland, I thought, looked very grave. Is that not so?”

Jeannie could hardly believe that this brisk, cheerful woman was the same who had sat so limply and undecidedly in the drawing-room half an hour ago. What had caused this change of front she could not guess, for, evidently, Dr. Maitland had not been reassuring. But her own part was made easier for her.

“Yes, he was very grave,” said Jeannie. “Dear Miss Clifford, it is idle for me to say how sorry I am. But it is very grave, indeed.[310]”

Ph?be stood at the window a moment with her back to Jeannie, and Jeannie could see that her hand, which played with the blind-cord, trembled, and at that her courage again failed her, and a sickening helplessness took its place. But almost immediately Ph?be turned round again, and her poor, gray face was quite composed, and her hand firm.

“Please tell me what it is, Miss Avesham,” she said.

Jeannie rose, took both her hands in hers, and looked at her with infinite compassion.

“It is cancer,” she said.

Phoebe drew a long sigh.

“You will think it very singular of me, Miss Avesham,” she said, “but it is almost a relief to hear that. The fear of it, I think, was worse than the knowledge. Can anything be done?”

“An operation could be attempted,” said Jeannie, “but it would be very dangerous, and not hopeful.”

“I am glad of that,” said Miss Ph?be, “for you must know, Miss Avesham, that I[311] am a terrible coward, and if there is one thing I dread it is being pulled about by a professional man. I have three teeth now that ought to come out. Would you think it very cowardly of me if I preferred not to have the operation?”

“Oh, thank God you bear it so well!” cried Jeannie, suddenly. “No, I should not think it cowardly. I think you are right. You a coward!” she said; “you are the bravest woman I ever saw.”

Miss Clifford’s face brightened with pleasure.

“I prayed God to let me not be very foolish about it,” she said. “Tell me one more thing. Would there have been a chance if I had gone to a doctor sooner?”

“There would,” said Jeannie, simply.

“Then will you promise me something?” asked Ph?be.

“Anything.”

“Don’t let poor Clara know that,” said Ph?be. “And oh, Miss Avesham, supposing she puts it to you rather directly, do you think you could go so far as to—well, to tell her just a little fib about it? It would save[312] Clara a great deal of distress, for she would reproach herself for not having insisted on my seeing a doctor.”

“I will lie to any extent,” said Jeannie; “and I promise you that Dr. Maitland shall, too.”

Ph?be shrank back.

“Oh, you put it so strongly, Miss Avesham,” she said. “I would not ask you to tell a lie, but if you could just be a little diplomatic, if you could lead Clara off the scent, so to speak.”

“She shall never know,” said Jeannie.

“Thank you so much. And now I will put on my hat and go home. I wonder, Miss Avesham, would it be too much to ask you to come and see us to-morrow morning? I am afraid Clara will be very much upset, and you can deal with her as no one else can. I shall send a line to Dr. Maitland, asking him to come and tell me what I must do.”

And she put on her hat, taking great care to have it straight, and adjusted her silk scarf round her neck.

“It is a little chilly this afternoon,” she said, “and to catch a cold at this time of[313] year is so tiresome. It is curious how much harder it is to throw off a cold in the summer.”

To Jeannie there was something infinitely pathetic about this. The poor lady had a mortal disease, yet the possibility of getting a cold in the head appeared, even at this first stunning moment, to rank at far greater importance in her mind. In a few weeks, now even, she was beyond all mortal aid, yet the adjustment of the silk scarf to shield her throat from possible chills was not less advisable.

The scarf adjusted, Miss Clifford paused again to pull down her veil to its accustomed point. At first it was too low, and then too high; this mattered no less than before. Little pleasures, little pains, seem to have a deeper and more intimate hold over certain natures than the greater calls: a man going out to be hung has been known to complain that his boot hurt him.

Jeannie called at Villa Montrose next morning, and, standing on the steps while the door was being answered, she heard the subdued tremolo of a mandolin. She was[314] shown at once into the drawing-room, and there in Ph?be’s corner was sitting Ph?be, with one leg thrown over the other, in the approved attitude, and in front of her, on a brass music-stand, was Funiculi, Funicula. She got up with alacrity when Jeannie entered.

“A lovely morning, is it not?” she said. “Dr. Maitland was so kind as to come early, and he told me I might get up and spend a quiet morning, going out in the afternoon, if I felt inclined. He recommended a drive, which I think I shall enjoy.”

Evidently for Ph?be the day of little things was not over. Uncertainty had worried her, the relief of certainty had let her tiny occupations resume their wonted importance. It seemed to Jeannie that condolence or congratulations on her bravery would be alike misplaced. It is good to weep with those who weep, but weeping friends are bad company if one does not show any inclination to weep one’s self, and certainly Ph?be showed none. And to continue congratulating any one on their fortitude is gratuitous. Courage, above all the virtues,[315] brings its own reward, for it is warming to the heart.

“But Clara offered to take off my hands all the work of the household,” continued Ph?be, “which was very thoughtful of her, for she had noticed, she said, that it seemed to have fatigued me these last few weeks. And so, Miss Avesham, I have been spending a holiday morning with my music. I have hardly any pain this morning.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said Jeannie, “and I see you have Funiculi. I know it, so I will accompany you.”

Clara upstairs, employed in looking out the towels in the bed-room, heard the light-hearted, rollicking tune vibrate through the house, and guessed Jeannie had come. Clara had a marked bedside manner, and her custom when any one was ill was to batter them with innocent questions as to whether they would have the door shut or the window opened, and to look at them with anxious, deprecating eyes, and to walk on a creaking tip-toe. Ph?be’s faint tinkling had been inaudible upstairs, and to play that song now seemed scarcely proper. She felt as she[316] would have felt if some one in the house was dead and the blinds had not been drawn down.

She was nearly at an end of her tour of inspection, and when, a few minutes later, she entered the drawing-room, the third verse of the song was not yet ended. She closed the door with elaborate precaution, and walking on tip-toe to Ph?be’s side, gazed into her face with a sad smile. But Ph?be only frowned; Jeannie was taking the song at a pace she was not used to, and it was as much as she could do to keep up.

“Turn over quick, Clara,” she said. “Now!” and Ph?be’s soul was in the thrumming of the mandolin.

The verse came to an end, and Jeannie turned round.

“That’s more the pace,” she said. “I remember I was with my father and mother in Naples when it came out, and it was the first sound you heard in the morning and the last you heard at night. I have a book of those Neapolitan airs; I’ll send them round to you if you like.”

[317]

Jeannie’s manner was anything but the ideal mortal-disease attitude which Clara had expected. She had expected to find her sitting by Ph?be’s side, with one hand in hers, talking about the next world and the lessons to be learned from pain. Perhaps she might with advantage have been found playing a hymn on the soft pedal, but instead of that she was thumping Neapolitan songs, and Ph?be seemed to be enjoying it. Was it possible that Dr. Maitland was wrong, and had told Jeannie so? In that case surely Jeannie would have let her know.

“There is another one,” Jeannie went on, running her hands gently over the keys. “Yes, that is right. It’s a duet, Stella d’Amore. The young man is walking by the sea, and sees a girl. He does not speak to her, but he sings to himself, as he passes, ‘There is a star by the sea,’ and when he has finished his verse, she sings, like him, ‘There is a star by the sea, but who am I that the star should hear me?’ And then they both sing, ‘Star of love by the sea.’”

Clara flushed.

“How romantic!” she said. “And did they marry?[318]”

“It doesn’t say,” said Jeannie. “You must write an extra verse, Miss Clara, saying that they did.”

Jeannie got up from the piano and began putting on her gloves.

“I must go,” she said; “but whenever you feel up to it, Miss Clifford, send me a note, and we’ll have another go at the mandolin. I won’t forget to let you have the book. Now mind you do all that Dr. Maitland tells you. Good-bye.”

Clara came to show Jeannie out, and stopped her in the hall.

“Oh, Miss Avesham,” she said, “is Ph?be better? Is it not what Dr. Maitland t............