IV His weakness and his dependence¹ on her gave her a feeling of kind superiority. And also her own physical well-being² was such that she could not help condescending³ towards him. She cared for a trustful, helpless little dog. She thought a great deal about him; she longed ardently⁴ to be of assistance to him; she had an acute sense of her responsibility and her duty. Yet, notwithstanding all that, her brain was perhaps chiefly occupied with herself and her own attitude towards existence. She became mentally and imaginatively active to an intense degree. She marvelled⁵ at existence as she had never marvelled before, and while seeming suddenly to understand it better she was far more than ever baffled by it. Was it credible⁶ that the accident of a lad losing control of a horse could have such huge and awful consequences on two persons utterly⁷ unconnected with the lad? A few seconds sooner, a few seconds later—and naught⁸ would have occurred to Louis, but he must needs be at exactly a certain spot at exactly a certain instant, with the result that now she was in torture! If this, if that, if the other—Louis would have been well and gay at that very moment, instead of a broken organism humiliated⁹ on a bed and clinging to her like a despairing child.
 
The rapidity and variety of events in her life again startled her, and once more she went over them. The disappearance¹⁰ of the bank-notes was surely enough in itself. But on the top of that fell the miracle of her love affair. Her marriage was like a dream of romance to her, untrue, incredible. Then there was the terrific episode of Julian on the previous night. One would have supposed that after that the sensationalism of events would cease. But, no! The unforeseeable had now occurred, something which reduced all else to mere¹¹ triviality.
 
And yet what had in fact occurred? Acquaintances, in recounting her story, would say that she had married her mistress's nephew, that there had been trouble between Louis and Julian about some bank-notes, and that Louis had had a bicycle accident. Naught more! A most ordinary chronicle! And if he died now, they would say that Louis had died within a month of the wedding and how sad it was! Husbands indubitably do die, young wives indubitably are transformed into widows—daily event, indeed!... She seemed to perceive the deep, hidden meaning of life. There were three Rachels in her—one who pitied Louis, one who pitied herself, and one who looked on and impartially¹² comprehended. The last was scarcely unhappy—only fervently¹⁴ absorbed in the prodigious¹⁵ wonder of the hour.
 
"Can't you do anything?" Louis murmured.
 
"If Dr. Yardley doesn't come quick, I shall send for some other doctor," she said, with decision.
 
He sighed.
 
"Better send for a lawyer at the same time," he said.
 
"A lawyer?"
 
"Yes. You know I've not made my will."
 
"Oh, Louis! Please don't talk like that! I can't bear to hear you."
 
"You'll have to hear worse things than that," he said pettishly¹⁶, loosing her hand. "I've got to have a solicitor¹⁷ here. Later on you'll probably be only too glad that I had enough common sense to send for a solicitor. Somebody must have a little common sense. I expect you'd better send for Lawton.... Oh! It's Friday afternoon—he'll have left early for his week-end golf, I bet." This last discovery seemed to exhaust his courage.
 
In another minute the doctor, cheerful and energetic, was actually in the room, and the gas brilliant. He gazed at an exanimate Louis, made a few inquiries¹⁸ and a few observations of his own, gave some brief instructions, and departed. The day was in truth one of his busy days.
 
He seemed surprised when Rachel softly called to him on the stairs.
 
"I suppose everything's all right, doctor?"
 
"Yes," said he casually¹⁹. "He'll feel mighty²⁰ queer for a few days. That's all."
 
"Then there's no danger?"
 
"Certainly not."
 
"But he thinks he's dying."
 
Dr. Yardley smiled carelessly.
 
"And do you?... He's no more dying than I am. That's only the effect of the shock. Didn't I tell you this morning? You probably won't be able to stop him just yet from thinking he's dying—it is a horrid²¹ feeling—but you needn't think so yourself, Mrs. Fores." He smiled.
 
"Oh, doctor," she burst out, "you don't know how you've relieved me!"
 
"You'll excuse me if I fly away," said Dr. Yardley calmly. "There's a crowd of insurance patients waiting for me at the surgery."
 
 
V
In the middle of the night Rachel was awakened²² by Louis' appeal. She was so profoundly asleep that for a few moments she could not recall what it was that had happened during the previous day to cause her anxiety.
 
After the visit of the doctor, Louis' moral condition had apparently²³ improved. He had affected²⁴ to be displeased²⁵ by the doctor's air of treating his case as though it was deprived of all importance. He had said that the doctor had failed to grasp his case. He had stated broadly that in these days of State health insurance all doctors were too busy and too wealthy to be of assistance to private patients capable of paying their bills in the old gentlemanly fashion. But his remarks had not been without a touch of facetiousness²⁶ in their wilful²⁷ disgust. And the mere tone of his voice proved that he felt better. To justify²⁸ his previous black pessimism²⁹ he had of course been obliged to behave in a certain manner (well known among patients who have been taking themselves too seriously), and Rachel had understood and excused. She would have been ready, indeed, to excuse for worse extravagances than any that could have occurred to the fancy of a nature so polite and benevolent³⁰ as that of Louis; for, in order to atone³¹ for her silly school-girlishness, she had made a compact with herself to be an angel and a serpent simultaneously³² for the entire remainder of her married life.
 
Then Mrs. Tams had come in, from errands of marketing³³, with a copy of the early special of the Signal, containing a description of the accident. Mrs. Tams had never before bought such a thing as a newspaper, but an acquaintance of hers who "stood the market" with tripe³⁴ and chitterlings had told her that Mr. Fores was "in" the Signal, and accordingly she had bravely stopped a news-boy in the street and made the purchase. To Rachel she pointed³⁵ out the paragraph with pride, and to please her and divert Louis, Rachel had introduced the newspaper into the bedroom. The item was headed: "Runaway³⁶ Horses in Bursley Market-place. Providential Escape." It spoke³⁷ of Mr. Louis Fores' remarkable³⁸ skill and presence of mind in swerving³⁹ away with two bicycles. It said that Mr. Louis Fores was an accomplished⁴⁰ cyclist, and that after a severe shaking Mr. Louis Fores drove home in a taxicab "apparently little the worse, save for facial contusions, for his perilous⁴¹ adventure." Lastly, it said that a representative of the Midland Railway had "assured our representative that the horses were not the property of the Midland Railway." Louis had sardonically⁴² repeated the phrase "apparently little the worse," murmuring it with his eyes shut. He had said, "I wish they could see me." Still, he had made no further mention of sending for a solicitor. He had taken a little food and a little drink. He had asked Rachel when she meant to go to bed. And at length Rachel, having first arranged food for use in the night, and fixed⁴⁴ a sheet of note-paper on the gas-bracket as a screen between the gas and Louis, had undressed and got into bed, and gone off into a heavy slumber⁴⁵ with a mind comparatively free.
 
In response to his confusing summons, she stumbled to her peignoir and slipped it on.
 
"Yes, dear?" she spoke softly.
 
"I couldn't bear it any longer," said the voice of Louis. "I just had to waken you."
 
She raised the gas, and her eyes blinked as she stared at him. His bedclothes were horribly disarranged.
 
"Are you in pain?" she asked, smoothing the blankets.
 
"No. But I'm so ill. I—I don't want to frighten you—"
 
"The doctor said you'd feel ill. It's the shock, you know."
 
She stroked his hand. He did indubitably look very ill. His appearance of woe⁴⁶, despair, and dreadful apprehension⁴⁷ was pitiable in the highest degree. With a gesture of intense weariness he declined food, nor could she persuade him to take anything whatever.
 
"You'll be ever so much better to-morrow. I'll sit up with you. You were bound to feel worse in the night."
 
"It's more than shock that I've got," he muttered. "I say, Rachel, it's all up with me. I know I'm done for. You'll have to do the best you can."
 
The notion shot through her head that possibly, after all, the doctor might have misjudged the case. Suppose Louis were to die in the night? Suppose the morning found her a widow? The world was full of the strangest happenings.... Then she was herself again and immovably cheerful in her secret heart. She thought: "I can go through worse nights than this. One night, some time in the future, either he will really be dying or I shall. This night is nothing." And she held his hand and sat in her old place on his bed. The room was chilly⁴⁸. She decided⁴⁹ that in five minutes she would light the gas-stove, and also make some tea with the spirit-lamp. She would have tea whether he still refused or not. His watch on the night-table showed half-past two. In about an hour the dawn would be commencing. She felt that she had reserves of force against any contingency⁵⁰, against any nervous strain.
 
Then he said, "I say, Rachel."
 
He was too ill to call her "Louise."
 
"I shall make some tea soon," she answered.
 
He went on: "You remember about that missing money—I mean before auntie died. You remember—"
 
"Don't talk about that, dear," she interrupted him eagerly. "Why should you bother about that now?"
 
In one instant those apparently exhaustless reserves of moral force seemed to have ebbed⁵¹ away. She had imagined herself equal to any contingency, and now there loomed⁵² a contingency which made her quail⁵³.
 
"I've got to talk about that," he said in his weak and desperate voice. His bruised⁵⁴ head was hollowed into the pillow, and he stared monotonously⁵⁵ at the ceiling, upon which the paper screen of the gas threw a great trembling shadow. "That's why I wakened you. You don't know what the inside of my brain's like.... Why did you say to them you found the scullery door open that night? You know perfectly⁵⁶ well it wasn't open."
 
She could scarcely speak.
 
"I—I—Louis don't talk about that now. You're too ill," she implored⁵⁷.
 
"I know why you said it."
 
"Be quiet!" she said sharply, and her voice broke.
 
But he continued in the same tone—
 
"You made up that tale about the scullery door because you guessed I'd collared the money and you wanted to save me from being suspected. Well, I did collar the money! Now I've told you!"
 
She burst into a sob⁵⁸, and her head dropped on to his body.
 
"Louis!" she cried passionately⁵⁹, amid her sobs⁶⁰. "Why ever did you tell me? You've ruined everything now. Everything!"
 
"I can't help that," said Louis, with a sort of obstinate⁶¹ and defiant⁶² weariness. "It was on my mind, and I just had to tell you. You don't seem to understand that I'm dying."
 
Rachel jumped up and sprang away from the bed.
 
"Of course you're not dying!" she reproached him. "How can you imagine such things?"
 
Her heart suddenly hardened against him—against his white-bandaged head and face, against his feeble voice of a beaten martyr⁶⁴. It seemed to her disgraceful that he, a strong male creature, should be lying there damaged, helpless, and under the foolish delusion⁶⁵ that he was dying. She recalled with bitter gusto the tone in which the doctor had said, "He's no more dying than I am!" All her fears that the doctor might be wrong had vanished away. She now resented her husband's illness; as a nurse, when danger is over, will resent a patient's long convalescence⁶⁶, somehow charging it to him as a sin.
 
"I found the other half of the notes under the chair on the—" Louis began again.
 
"Please!" she objected with quick resounding⁶⁷ violence, and raised a hand.
 
He said—
 
"You must listen."
 
She answered, passionately—
 
"I won't listen! I won't listen! And if you don't stop I shall leave the room! I shall leave you all alone!... Yes, I shall!" She moved a little towards the door.
 
His gloomy and shifty glance followed her, and there was a short silence.
 
"You needn't work yourself up into such a state," murmured Louis at length. "But I should like to know whether the scullery door was open or not, when you came downstairs that night?"
 
Rachel's glance fell. She blushed. The tears had ceased to drop from her eyes. She made no answer.
 
"You see," said Louis, with a half-sneering triumph, "I knew jolly well it wasn't open. So did old Batchgrew know, too."
 
She shut her lips together, went decisively to the mantelpiece, struck a match, and lit the stove. Like the patent gas-burner downstairs, the stove often had to be extinguished after the first lighting⁶⁹ and lighted again with a second and different kind of explosion. And so it was now. She flung down the match pettishly into the hearth⁷⁰. Throughout the whole operation she sniffed⁷¹ convulsively, to prevent a new fit of sobbing⁷². Her peignoir being very near to the purple-green flames that folded themselves round the asbestos of the stove, she reflected that the material was probably inflammable, and that a careless movement might cause it to be ignited. "And not a bad thing, either!" she said to herself. Then, without looking at all towards the bed, she lit the spirit-lamp in order to make tea. The sniffing⁷³ continued, as she went through the familiar procedure.
 
The water would not boil, demonstrating the cruel truth of proverbs. She sat down and, gazing into the stove, now a rich red, ignored the saucepan. The dry heat from the stove burnt her ankles and face. Not a sound from the small saucepan, balanced on its tripod over the wavering blue flame of the spirit-lamp! At last, uncontrollably impatient, she lifted the teapot off the inverted⁷⁴ lid of the saucepan, where she had placed it to warm, and peered into the saucepan. The water was cheerfully boiling! She made the tea, and sat down again to wait until it should be infused. She had to judge the minutes as well as she could, for she would not go across to the night-table to look at Louis' watch; her own was out of order, and so was the clock. She counted two hundred and fifty, and then, anticipating feverishly⁷⁵ the tonic⁷⁶ glow of the tea in her breast, she poured out a cup. Only colourless steaming water came forth⁷⁷ from the pot. She had forgotten to put in the tea! Misfortune not unfamiliar⁷⁸ to dazed makers⁷⁹ of tea in the night! But to Rachel now the consequences of the omission⁸⁰ seemed to amount to a tragedy. Had she the courage to begin the interminable weary process afresh? She was bound to begin it afresh. With her eyes obscured by tears, she put the water back into the saucepan and searched for the match-box. The water boiled almost immediately, and by so doing comforted her.
 
While waiting for the infusion⁸¹, she realized little by little that for a few moments she must have been nearly hysterical⁸², and she partially¹³ resumed possession of herself. The sniffing ceased, her vision cleared; she grew sardonic⁴³. All her chest was filled with cold lead. "This truly is the end," she thought. She had thought that Julian's confession⁸³ must be the end of the violent experiences which had befallen her in Mrs. Malden's house. Then she had thought that Louis' accident must be the end. Each time she had been mistaken. But she could not be mistaken now. No conceivable event, however awful, could cap Louis' confession that he had thieved—and under such circumstances!
 
She did not drink the first cup of tea. No! She must needs carry it, spilling it, to Louis in bed. He was asleep, or he was in a condition that resembled sleep. Assuredly he was ill. He made a dreadful object in his bandages ............