The afternoon was very hot, so hot that the breaking of the waves onthe shore sounded like the repeated sigh of some exhausted creature,and even on the terrace under an awning the bricks were hot,and the air danced perpetually over the short dry grass.

　　The red flowers in the stone basins were drooping with the heat,and the white blossoms which had been so smooth and thick only a fewweeks ago were now dry, and their edges were curled and yellow.

　　Only the stiff and hostile plants of the south, whose fleshy leavesseemed to be grown upon spines, still remained standing uprightand defied the sun to beat them down. It was too hot to talk,and it was not easy to find any book that would withstand the powerof the sun. Many books had been tried and then let fall, and nowTerence was reading Milton aloud, because he said the words of Miltonhad substance and shape, so that it was not necessary to understandwhat he was saying; one could merely listen to his words; one couldalmost handle them.

　　There is a gentle nymph not far from hence,he read,That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream.

　　Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure;Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,That had the sceptre from his father Brute.

　　The words, in spite of what Terence had said, seemed to be ladenwith meaning, and perhaps it was for this reason that it was painfulto listen to them; they sounded strange; they meant different thingsfrom what they usually meant. Rachel at any rate could not keepher attention fixed upon them, but went off upon curious trains ofthought suggested by words such as "curb" and "Locrine" and "Brute,"which brought unpleasant sights before her eyes, independently oftheir meaning. Owing to the heat and the dancing air the gardentoo looked strange--the trees were either too near or too far,and her head almost certainly ached. She was not quite certain,and therefore she did not know, whether to tell Terence now,or to let him go on reading. She decided that she would wait untilhe came to the end of a stanza, and if by that time she had turnedher head this way and that, and it ached in every position undoubtedly,she would say very calmly that her head ached.

　　Sabrina fair,Listen where thou art sittingUnder the glassy, cool, translucent wave,In twisted braids of lilies knittingThe loose train of thy amber dropping hair,Listen for dear honour's sake,Goddess of the silver lake,Listen and save!

　　But her head ached; it ached whichever way she turned it.

　　She sat up and said as she had determined, "My head aches so thatI shall go indoors." He was half-way through the next verse,but he dropped the book instantly.

　　"Your head aches?" he repeated.

　　For a few moments they sat looking at one another in silence,holding each other's hands. During this time his sense of dismayand catastrophe were almost physically painful; all round him heseemed to hear the shiver of broken glass which, as it fell to earth,left him sitting in the open air. But at the end of two minutes,noticing that she was not sharing his dismay, but was only rathermore languid and heavy-eyed than usual, he recovered, fetched Helen,and asked her to tell him what they had better do, for Rachel hada headache.

　　Mrs. Ambrose was not discomposed, but advised that she should goto bed, and added that she must expect her head to ache if she sat upto all hours and went out in the heat, but a few hours in bed wouldcure it completely. Terence was unreasonably reassured by her words,as he had been unreasonably depressed the moment before. Helen's senseseemed to have much in common with the ruthless good sense of nature,which avenged rashness by a headache, and, like nature's good sense,might be depended upon.

　　Rachel went to bed; she lay in the dark, it seemed to her,for a very long time, but at length, waking from a transparentkind of sleep, she saw the windows white in front of her,and recollected that some time before she had gone to bed witha headache, and that Helen had said it would be gone when she woke.

　　She supposed, therefore, that she was now quite well again.

　　At the same time the wall of her room was painfully white,and curved slightly, instead of being straight and flat. Turning hereyes to the window, she was not reassured by what she saw there.

　　The movement of the blind as it filled with air and blew slowly out,drawing the cord with a little trailing sound along the floor, seemed toher terrifying, as if it were the movement of an animal in the room.

　　She shut her eyes, and the pulse in her head beat so stronglythat each thump seemed to tread upon a nerve, piercing her foreheadwith a little stab of pain. It might not be the same headache,but she certainly had a headache. She turned from side to side,in the hope that the coolness of the sheets would cure her, and thatwhen she next opened her eyes to look the room would be as usual.

　　After a considerable number of vain experiments, she resolved to putthe matter beyond a doubt. She got out of bed and stood upright,holding on to the brass ball at the end of the bedstead.

　　Ice-cold at first, it soon became as hot as the palm of her hand,and as the pains in her head and body and the instability of the floorproved that it would be far more intolerable to stand and walkthan to lie in bed, she got into bed again; but though the changewas refreshing at first, the discomfort of bed was soon as greatas the discomfort of standing up. She accepted the idea that shewould have to stay in bed all day long, and as she laid her headon the pillow, relinquished the happiness of the day.

　　When Helen came in an hour or two later, suddenly stopped hercheerful words, looked startled for a second and then unnaturally calm,the fact that she was ill was put beyond a doubt. It was confirmedwhen the whole household knew of it, when the song that someone was singing in the garden stopped suddenly, and when Maria,as she brought water, slipped past the bed with averted eyes.

　　There was all the morning to get through, and then all the afternoon,and at intervals she made an effort to cross over into the ordinary world,but she found that her heat and discomfort had put a gulf betweenher world and the ordinary world which she could not bridge.

　　At one point the door opened, and Helen came in with a littledark man who had--it was the chief thing she noticed about him--very hairy hands. She was drowsy and intolerably hot, and as heseemed shy and obsequious she scarcely troubled to answer him,although she understood that he was a doctor. At another pointthe door opened and Terence came in very gently, smiling too steadily,as she realised, for it to be natural. He sat down and talked to her,stroking her hands until it became irksome to her to lie any morein the same position and she turned round, and when she looked upagain Helen was beside her and Terence had gone. It did not matter;she would see him to-morrow when things would be ordinary again.

　　Her chief occupation during the day was to try to remember how thelines went:

　　Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,In twisted braids of lilies knittingThe loose train of thy amber dropping hair;and the effort worried her because the adjectives persistedin getting into the wrong places.

　　The second day did not differ very much from the first day,except that her bed had become very important, and the world outside,when she tried to think of it, appeared distinctly further off.

　　The glassy, cool, translucent wave was almost visible before her,curling up at the end of the bed, and as it was refreshingly coolshe tried to keep her mind fixed upon it. Helen was here, and Helenwas there all day long; sometimes she said that it was lunchtime,and sometimes that it was teatime; but by the next day all landmarkswere obliterated, and the outer world was so far away that thedifferent sounds, such as the sounds of people moving overhead,could only be ascribed to their cause by a great effort of memory.

　　The recollection of what she had felt, or of what she had beendoing and thinking three days before, had faded entirely.

　　On the other hand, every object in the room, and the bed itself,and her own body with its various limbs and their different sensationswere more and more important each day. She was completely cut off,and unable to communicate with the rest of the world, isolated alonewith her body.

　　Hours and hours would pass thus, without getting any further throughthe morning, or again a few minutes would lead from broad daylight tothe depths of the night. One evening when the room appeared very dim,either because it was evening or because the blinds were drawn,Helen said to her, "Some one is going to sit here to-night. Youwon't mind?"Opening her eyes, Rachel saw not only Helen but a nurse in spectacles,whose face vaguely recalled something that she had once seen.

　　She had seen her in the chapel. "Nurse McInnis," said Helen,and the nurse smiled steadily as they all did, and said that shedid not find many people who were frightened of her. After waitingfor a moment they both disappeared, and having turned on her pillowRachel woke to find herself in the midst of one of those interminablenights which do not end at twelve, but go on into the double figures--thirteen, fourteen, and so on until they reach the twenties,and then the thirties, and then the forties. She realised thatthere is nothing to prevent nights from doing this if they choose.

　　At a great distance an elderly woman sat with her head bent down;Rachel raised herself slightly and saw with dismay that she was playingcards by the light of a candle which stood in the hollow of a newspaper.

　　The sight had something inexplicably sinister about it, and shewas terrified and cried out, upon which the woman laid down hercards and came across the room, shading the candle with her hands.

　　Coming nearer and nearer across the great space of the room,she stood at last above Rachel's head and said, "Not asleep?

　　Let me make you comfortable."She put down the candle and began to arrange the bedclothes.

　　It struck Rachel that a woman who sat playing cards in a cavern allnight long would have very cold hands, and she shrunk from the touchof them.

　　"Why, there's a toe all the way down there!" the woman said,proceeding to tuck in the bedclothes. Rachel did not realisethat the toe was hers.

　　"You must try and lie still," she proceeded, "because if you lie stillyou will be less hot, and if you toss about you will make yourselfmore hot, and we don't want you to be any hotter than you are."She stood looking down upon Rachel for an enormous length of time.

　　"And the quieter you lie the sooner you will be well," she repeated.

　　Rachel kept her eyes fixed upon the peaked shadow on the ceiling,and all her energy was concentrated upon the desire that this shadowshould move. But the shadow and the woman seemed to be eternally fixedabove her. She shut her eyes. When she opened them again severalmore hours had passed, but the night still lasted interminably.

　　The woman was still playing cards, only she sat now in a tunnelunder a river, and the light stood in a little archway in the wallabove her. She cried "Terence!" and the peaked shadow again movedacross the ceiling, as the woman with an enormous slow movement rose,and they both stood still above her.

　　"It's just as difficult to keep you in bed as it was to keepMr. Forrest in bed," the woman said, "and he was such a tall gentleman."In order to get rid of this terrible stationary sight Rachel againshut her eyes, and found herself walking through a tunnel underthe Thames, where there were little deformed women sitting in archwaysplaying cards, while the bricks of which the wall was made oozedwith damp, which collected into drops and slid down the wall.

　　But the little old women became Helen and Nurse McInnis after a time,standing in the window together whispering, whispering incessantly.

　　Meanwhile outside her room the sounds, the movements, and the lives ofthe other people in the house went on in the ordinary light of the sun,throughout the usual succession of hours. When, on the first dayof her illness, it became clear that she would not be absolutely well,for her temperature was very high, until Friday, that daybeing Tuesday, Terence was filled with resentment, not against her,but against the force outside them which was separating them.

　　He counted up the number of days that would almost certainly bespoilt for them. He realised, with an odd mixture of pleasureand annoyance, that, for the first time in his life, he was sodependent upon another person that his happiness was in her keeping.

　　The days were completely wasted upon trifling, immaterial things,for after three weeks of such intimacy and intensity all the usualoccupations were unbearably flat and beside the point. The leastintolerable occupation was to talk to St. John about Rachel's illness,and to discuss every symptom and its meaning, and, when this subjectwas exhausted, to discuss illness of all kinds, and what caused them,and what cured them.

　　Twice every day he went in to sit with Rachel, and twiceevery day the same thing happened. On going into her room,which was not very dark, where the music was lying about as usual,and her books and letters, his spirits rose instantly. When hesaw her he felt completely reassured. She did not look very ill.

　　Sitting by her side he would tell her what he had been doing,using his natural voice to speak to her, only a few tones lowerdown than usual; but by the time he had sat there for five minuteshe was plunged into the deepest gloom. She was not the same;he could not bring them back to their old relationship; but althoughhe knew that it was foolish he could not prevent himself fromendeavouring to bring her back, to make her remember, and when thisfailed he was in despair. He always concluded as he left her roomthat it was worse to see her than not to see her, but by degrees,as the day wore on, the desire to see her returned and became almosttoo great to be borne.

　　On Thursday morning when Terence went into her room he felt the usualincrease of confidence. She turned round and made an effort to remembercertain facts from the world that was so many millions of miles away.

　　"You have come up from the hotel?" she asked.

　　"No; I'm staying here for the present," he said. "We've justhad luncheon," he continued, "and the mail has come in.

　　There's a bundle of letters for you--letters from England."Instead of saying, as he meant her to say, that she wished to see them,she said nothing for some time.

　　"You see, there they go, rolling off the edge of the hill,"she said suddenly.

　　"Rolling, Rachel? What do you see rolling? There's nothing rolling.""The old woman with the knife," she replied, not speaking to Terencein particular, and looking past him. As she appeared to be lookingat a vase on the shelf opposite, he rose and took it down.

　　"Now they can't roll any more," he said cheerfully. Nevertheless shelay gazing at the same spot, and paid him no further attentionalthough he spoke to her. He became so profoundly wretched that hecould not endure to sit with her, but wandered about until hefound St. John, who was reading _The_ _Times_ in the verandah.

　　He laid it aside patiently, and heard all that Terence had to sayabout delirium. He was very patient with Terence. He treated himlike a child.

　　By Friday it could not be denied that the illness was no longeran attack that would pass off in a day or two; it was a real illnessthat required a good deal of organisation, and engrossed the attentionof at least five people, but there was no reason to be anxious.

　　Instead of lasting five days it was going to last ten days.

　　Rodriguez was understood to say that there were well-known varietiesof this illness. Rodriguez appeared to think that they were treatingthe illness with undue anxiety. His visits were always markedby the same show of confidence, and in his interviews with Terencehe always waved aside his anxious and minute questions with a kindof flourish which seemed to indicate that they were all taking itmuch too seriously. He seemed curiously unwilling to sit down.

　　"A high temperature," he said, looking furtively about the room,and appearing to be more interested in the furniture and in Helen'sembroidery than in anything else. "In this climate you mustexpect a high temperature. You need not be alarmed by that.

　　It is the pulse we go by" (he tapped his own hairy wrist), "andthe pulse continues excellent."Thereupon he bowed and slipped out. The interview was conductedlaboriously upon both sides in French, and this, together with the factthat he was optimistic, and that Terence respected the medicalprofession from hearsay, made him less critical than he wouldhave been had he encountered the doctor in any other capacity.

　　Unconsciously he took Rodriguez' side against Helen, who seemedto have taken an unreasonable prejudice against him.

　　When Saturday came it was evident that the hours of the day mustbe more strictly organised than they had been. St. John offeredhis services; he said that he had nothing to do, and that he mightas well spend the day at the villa if he could be of use. As if theywere starting on a difficult expedition together, they parcelled outtheir duties between them, writing out an elaborate scheme of hoursupon a large sheet of paper which was pinned to the drawing-room door.

　　Their distance from the town, and the difficulty of procuringrare things with unknown names from the most unexpected places,made it necessary to think very carefully, and they found itunexpectedly difficult to do the simple but practical things thatwere required of them, as if they, being very tall, were askedto stoop down and arrange minute grains of sand in a pattern on the ground.

　　It was St. John's duty to fetch what was needed from the town,so that Terence would sit all through the long hot hours alone in thedrawing-room, near the open door, listening for any movement upstairs,or call from Helen. He always forgot to pull down the blinds,so that he sat in bright sunshine, which worried him without hisknowing what was the cause of it. The room was terribly stiffand uncomfortable. There were hats in the chairs, and medicine bottlesamong the books. He tried to read, but good books were too good,and bad books were too bad, and the only thing he could toleratewas the newspaper, which with its news of London, and the movementsof real people who were giving dinner-parties and making speeches,seemed to give a little background of reality to what was otherwisemere nightmare. Then, just as his attention was fixed on the print,a soft call would come from Helen, or Mrs. Chailey would bringin something which was wanted upstairs, and he would run upvery quietly in his socks, and put the jug on the little tablewhich stood crowded with jugs and cups outside the bedroom door;or if he could catch Helen for a moment he would ask, "How is she?""Rather restless. . . . On the whole, quieter, I think."The answer would be one or the other.

　　As usual she seemed to reserve something which she did not say,and Terence was conscious that they disagreed, and, without sayingit aloud, were arguing against each other. But she was too hurriedand pre-occupied to talk.

　　The strain of listening and the effort of making practical arrangementsand seeing that things worked smoothly, absorbed all Terence's power.

　　Involved in this long dreary nightmare, he did not attempt to thinkwhat it amounted to. Rachel was ill; that was all; he must see thatthere was medicine and milk, and that things were ready when theywere wanted. Thought had ceased; life itself had come to a standstill.

　　Sunday was rather worse than Saturday had been, simply becausethe strain was a little greater every day, although nothing elsehad changed. The separate feelings of pleasure, interest, and pain,which combine to make up the ordinary day, were merged in one long-drawnsensation of sordid misery and profound boredom. He had never beenso bored since he was shut up in the nursery alone as a child.

　　The vision of Rachel as she was now, confused and heedless,had almost obliterated the vision of her as she had been oncelong ago; he could hardly believe that they had ever been happy,or engaged to be married, for what were feelings, what was thereto be felt? Confusion covered every sight and person, and heseemed to see St. John, Ridley, and the stray people who came upnow and then from the hotel to enquire, through a mist; the onlypeople who were not hidden in this mist were Helen and Rodriguez,because they could tell him something definite about Rachel.

　　Nevertheless the day followed the usual forms. At certain hoursthey went into the dining-room, and when they sat round the tablethey talked about indifferent things. St. John usually made ithis business to start the talk and to keep it from dying out.

　　"I've discovered the way to get Sancho past the white house,"said St. John on Sunday at luncheon. "You crackle a piece of paperin his ear, then he bolts for about a hundred yards, but he goeson quite well after that.""Yes, but he wants corn. You should see that he has corn.""I don't think much of the stuff they give him; and Angelo seemsa dirty little rascal."There was then a long silence. Ridley murmured a few lines ofpoetry under his breath, and remarked, as if to conceal the factthat he had done so, "Very hot to-day.""Two degrees higher than it was yesterday," said St. John.

　　"I wonder where these nuts come from," he observed, taking a nutout of the plate, turning it over in his fingers, and looking atit curiously.

　　"London, I should think," said Terence, looking at the nut too.

　　"A competent man of business could make a fortune here in no time,"St. John continued. "I suppose the heat does something funny topeople's brains. Even the English go a little queer. Anyhow they'rehopeless people to deal with. They kept me three-quarters of an hourwaiting at the chemist's this morning, for no reason whatever."There was another long pause. Then Ridley enquired, "Rodriguezseems satisfied?""Quite," said Terence with decision. "It's just got to run its course."Whereupon Ridley heaved a deep sigh. He was genuinely sorryfor every one, but at the same time he missed Helen considerably,and was a little aggrieved by the constant presence of the twoyoung men.

　　They moved back into the drawing-room.

　　"Look here, Hirst," said Terence, "there's nothing to be donefor two hours." He consulted the sheet pinned to the door.

　　"You go and lie down. I'll wait here. Chailey sits with Rachelwhile Helen has her luncheon."It was asking a good deal of Hirst to tell him to go without waitingfor a sight of Helen. These little glimpses of Helen were the onlyrespites from strain and boredom, and very often they seemed to makeup for the discomfort of the day, although she might not have anythingto tell them. However, as they were on an expedition together,he had made up his mind to obey.

　　Helen was very late in coming down. She looked like a person who hasbeen sitting for a long time in the dark. She was pale and thinner,and the expression of her eyes was harassed but determined.

　　She ate her luncheon quickly, and seemed indifferent to what shewas doing. She brushed aside Terence's enquiries, and at last,as if he had not spoken, she looked at him with a slight frownand said:

　　"We can't go on like this, Terence. Either you've got to findanother doctor, or you must tell Rodriguez to stop coming, and I'llmanage for myself. It's no use for him to say that Rachel's better;she's not better; she's worse."Terence suffered a terrific shock, like that which he had sufferedwhen Rachel said, "My head aches." He stilled it by reflectingthat Helen was overwrought, and he was upheld in this opinionby his obstinate sense that she was opposed to him in the argument.

　　"Do you think she's in danger?" he asked.

　　"No one can go on being as ill as that day after day--" Helen replied.

　　She looked at him, and spoke as if she felt some indignationwith somebody.

　　"Very well, I'll talk to Rodriguez this afternoon," he replied.

　　Helen went upstairs at once.

　　Nothing now could assuage Terence's anxiety. He could not read,nor could he sit still, and his sense of security was shaken, in spiteof the fact that he was determined that Helen was exaggerating,and that Rachel was not very ill. But he wanted a third personto confirm him in his belief.

　　Directly Rodriguez came down he demanded, "Well, how is she?

　　Do you think her worse?""There is no reason for anxiety, I tell you--none," Rodriguez repliedin his execrable French, smiling uneasily, and making littlemovements all the time as if to get away.

　　Hewet stood firmly between him and the door. He was determinedto see for himself what kind of man he was. His confidence inthe man vanished as he looked at him and saw his insignificance,his dirty appearance, his shiftiness, and his unintelligent,hairy face. It was strange that he had never seen this before.

　　"You won't object, of course, if we ask you to consult another doctor?"he continued.

　　At this the little man became openly incensed.

　　"Ah!" he cried. "You have not confidence in me? You objectto my treatment? You wish me to give up the case?""Not at all," Terence replied, "but in serious illness of this kind--"Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders.

　　"It is not serious, I assure you. You are overanxious. The younglady is not seriously ill, and I am a doctor. The lady of courseis frightened," he sneered. "I understand that perfectly.""The name and address of the doctor is--?" Terence continued.

　　"There is no other doctor," Rodriguez replied sullenly. "Every onehas confidence in me. Look! I will show you."He took out a packet of old letters and began turning them overas if in search of one that would confute Terence's suspicions.

　　As he searched, he began to tell a story about an English lordwho had trusted him--a great English lord, whose name he had,unfortunately, forgotten.

　　"There is no other doctor in the place," he concluded, still turningover the letters.

　　"Never mind," said Terence shortly. "I will make enquiries for myself."Rodriguez put the letters back in his pocket.

　　"Very well," he remarked. "I have no objection."He lifted his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, as if to repeatthat they took the illness much too seriously and that there wasno other doctor, and slipped out, leaving behind him an impressionthat he was conscious that he was distrusted, and that his malicewas aroused.

　　After this Terence could no longer stay downstairs. He went up,knocked at Rachel's door, and asked Helen whether he might seeher for a few minutes. He had not seen her yesterday. She madeno objection, and went and sat at a table in the window.

　　Terence sat down by the bedside. Rachel's face was changed.

　　She looked as though she were entirely concentrated upon the effortof keeping alive. Her lips were drawn, and her cheeks were sunkenand flushed, though without colour. Her eyes were not entirely shut,the lower half of the white part showing, not as if she saw,but as if they remained open because she was too much exhaustedto close them. She opened them completely when he kissed her.

　　But she only saw an old woman slicing a man's head off with a knife.

　　"There it falls!" she murmured. She then turned to Terence andasked him anxiously some question about a man with mules, which hecould not understand. "Why doesn't he come? Why doesn't he come?"she repeated. He was appalled to think of the dirty little man downstairsin connection with illness like this, and turning instinctivelyto Helen, but she was doing something at a table in the window,and did not seem to realise how great the shock to him must be.

　　He rose to go, for he could not endure to listen any longer;his heart beat quickly and painfully with anger and misery.

　　As he passed Helen she asked him in the same weary, unnatural,but determined voice to fetch her more ice, and to have the jugoutside filled with fresh milk.

　　When he had done these errands he went to find Hirst. Exhausted andvery hot, St. John had fallen asleep on a bed, but Terence wokehim without scruple.

　　"Helen thinks she's worse," he said. "There's no doubt she'sfrightfully ill. Rodriguez is useless. We must get another doctor.""But there is no other doctor," said Hirst drowsily, sitting upand rubbing his eyes.

　　"Don't be a damned fool!" Terence exclaimed. "Of course there'sanother doctor, and, if there isn't, you've got to find one. It oughtto have been done days ago. I'm going down to saddle the horse."He could not stay still in one place.

　　In less than ten minutes St. John was riding to the town in thescorching heat in search of a doctor, his orders being to findone and bring him back if he had to be fetched in a special train.

　　"We ought to have done it days ago," Hewet repeated angrily.

　　When he went back into the drawing-room he found that Mrs. Flushingwas there, standing very erect in the middle of the room,having arrived, as people did in these days, by the kitchenor through the garden unannounced.

　　"She's better?" Mrs. Flushing enquired abruptly; they did notattempt to shake hands.

　　"No," said Terence. "If anything, they think she's worse."Mrs. Flushing seemed to consider for a moment or two, looking straightat Terence all the time.

　　"Let me tell you," she said, speaking in nervous jerks, "it's alwaysabout the seventh day one begins to get anxious. I daresay you'vebeen sittin' here worryin' by yourself. You think she's bad,but any one comin' with a fresh eye would see she was better.

　　Mr. Elliot's had fever; he's all right now," she threw out.

　　"It wasn't anythin' she caught on the expedition. What's it matter--a few days' fever? My brother had fever for twenty-six days once.

　　And in a week or two he was up and about. We gave him nothin' but milkand arrowroot--"Here Mrs. Chailey came in with a message.

　　"I'm wanted upstairs," said Terence.

　　"You see--she'll be better," Mrs. Flushing jerked out as heleft the room. Her anxiety to persuade Terence was very great,and when he left her without saying anything she felt dissatisfiedand restless; she d............