"It makes for a temperament that is too--what shall I call it?--unpractical. You have a gift--a great gift--but it is not for nursing; you are too sentimental."
"And how do you arrive at that conclusion?" she asked, interested in spite of herself.
"Excuse me!" He touched the muslin cuff she wore with a hand she could not help admiring: it was so shapely, so strong, so skilful-looking, albeit so small for a man of his height.
Yet her eyes flashed a quick challenge at him. "You mean that it is sentimental and unpractical to mourn those one loves. I do not agree with you."
The sunlight glinting through his eyes turned them almost to amber.
There was a world of gentle raillery in them at which, however, it was impossible to be angry.
"To wear your heart on your sleeve?--yes," he replied. "Ah, Mrs.
Tressilian, believe me, you are lost to the world! What a wife you would have made with your ardent imagination to some grovelling slave tied down, as I am, by the nose, to the body of things! But that is another story, and so is clairvoyance, though in your present state I'm convinced you could see. The point at issue remains that----" he paused.
"Well!" she asked almost eagerly.
He laughed. "My patients say I prescribe Paradise, when I beg them not to fash themselves. But there is one thing I have found out. I can't tell you why, but worry stops the working of the vital machine. It gets into the cogs somehow and clogs the wheels. Then you fall back on reserve-force, and having exhausted that, feel exhausted. We doctors nowadays are helpless before the feeling of hustle. We prescribe rest-cures, but you can worry as much, perhaps more, on the flat of the back! The remedy lies with the patient. And you have so much imagination, Mrs. Tressilian. Used cheerfully, it is the most valuable therapeutic agent we have. Ah! here comes your father. Some of the hotel people want to take us all back to tea, and I expect he is coming to ask you about it."
She looked at him steadily, but he showed no consciousness, and she turned to meet Sir Geoffrey feeling baffled. She had known about and had meant to avoid this tea; but something in the very directness of Dr. Ramsay's unsought diagnosis roused her to show him its incorrectness.
Anyhow she found herself rather to her disgust not only going to the hotel, but going in the front seat of Mr. Hirsch's motor.
And once in the wide, south-western verandah--which was built so close to the perpendicular cliff that leaning over the balustrade you could see nothing but the sea--while the salt wind clung to her cheek like the fierce kiss of a lover, bringing with it an unwonted flush of colour, she was forced to admit that the place had its charms; that it was not all vulgarised. There was laughter and music, of course (both of them loud), about the tea-tables, but at the further end comparative peace reigned around the couch of an invalid lady, whose little girl was apparently a great friend of Sir Geoffrey's. He was always so good to children, she remembered with a pang, picturing herself as she was at little Maidie's age.
The child's mother, Amy Massingham, was very dark--dark, with those large lustrous eyes, and very white teeth, which suggest Indian blood; and she must have been beautiful before languor and pallor had come instead of rich colour and vivacity. Still, even at her best she could never have touched the exceeding brightness and beauty of her little daughter Maidie. She was incomparable. A little vivid tropical bird flitting about Sir Geoffrey, chattering, her small round face glowing with brilliant tints, sparkling, dimpling, her teeth showing in a flash of smiles that seemed to irradiate her body and soul, while her cloud of dark hair, still golden bronze at its curly tips, floated about with her.
She was like a ripe pomegranate, yellow and red-brown in her dainty little yellow silk frock.
Perched now on Sir Geoffrey's long lap, she was stroking his soft moleskin knees, and swinging herself backwards and forwards rhythmically.
"And when daddie comes from India," she insisted, "we won't go 'way and leave 'oo, Sir Geoffley, will we, mumsie? We'em goin' to stop at Seaview always, an' always, an' always. Ain't we, mums?"
Amy Massingham smiled gently: she did everything so very gently that she failed, as it were, to do anything at all. Her impact was not strong enough to move any fixed object.
"Well, my precious! It would be delightful, and dear Sir Geoffrey is so kind, isn't he? but I'm afraid dadda can't manage it. You see, Mrs.
Tressilian, darling old Dick is only home on short leave--really only to see me--but his people will want to have him first thing."
"Oh, mumsie! We'se goin' to have him the firstest thing of all,"
protested Maidie, who was now on the floor, fondling the big curly retriever who was always Sir Geoffrey's shadow, "for his ship'll pass over there--right over there, don't you see, Mrs. T'sllian."
She was by this time leaning over the balustrade beside Helen and looked up at her--such a sparkling, brilliant little maid!--with fearless eye. Something in the childless woman's heart went out to her, and beyond her again to the grave far away under the orange-trees of the man who was dying when she married him. If she could have had such a child!--it had been better, perhaps.
"Supposing we were to put up a signal here, saying, 'Mumsie and Maidie waiting for you,' wouldn't it be fun?" she said, smiling.
"Will you do it?" said the child quickly.
She shook her head. "It was only supposing, Maidie," she replied.
The little brilliant creature's face fell. "Oh! I wis' you would--make 'em stop right here, just this corner. I want him to stop, an' then I'd go on the ship too, an' sail, an' sail, an' sail." She had forgotten her disappointment in the new idea. That is what the world does generally, thought Helen; and yet----
"I suppose you love your father, don't you, Maidie?" she asked suddenly.
The child looked at her gravely. "'Normous much," she replied, repeating her stock phrase. "An' I love Sir Geoffley 'normous much too. We 're goin' to live together, an' I'm to be his darlin' for ever an' ever an' nay! Ain't we? Ain't we?"
And she flung herself into his arms as he approached them, an unreserved joyous bundle of curls, smiles, and dimples. His face relaxed from the hard look of pressing anxiety it had worn all day. He caught the child up, tossing her like a feather above his long length, then cuddling her close to kiss.
"For ever, and ever, and aye!" he echoed; "Never fear, Maidie, I'm yours to command."
Then he set her down and turned to his daughter. "Helen!" he said, "I've some business here which may keep me awhile. You'll drive back with Hirsch, of course."
She did not meet his eyes, but kept hers far out at sea.
"I think not, father," she said gently, "I want to walk home with Ned.
I have something to say to him."
Sir Geoffrey looked at her resentfully. "Ned has found a sick Indian friend upstairs and won't be available--you'd better go."
She turned round then. "No, father, I can't. It isn't fair--on him.
Even coming here----" She broke off, and turned to the sea again.
He came closer, hesitated. "Nell," he said almost pitifully, "can't you--to please me? He really is a good fellow at bottom. I wouldn't ask it otherwise. It would free me--from you don't know what. And, my God! in London half the pretty women one meets are married to such awful bounders."
"It is because Mr. Hirsch isn't a bounder--because he really is in some ways a good fellow," she said, "that I will not--I can walk back with the others."
He stood looking at her with anger and affection in his eye for a moment, then strode off to say good-bye to Mrs. Massingham.
"I suppose your husband may drop in any moment," he said cheerfully.
"Any moment," she echoed, "we are so excited, Maidie and I. This morning we saw such a big vessel passing, right away on the horizon.
The manager thought it might be a transport."
Maidie looked up and nodded her cloud of curls. "But it wasn't, you see," she said; "for she's--(here she nodded again at Helen)--goin' to signal 'Stop here!'"
"That was only supposing, Maidie!"
"Supposing an' supposing an' supposin'. 'Free times 'free is 'free,"
quoted Maidie slyly, "Just you wait an' see."
"Yes! wait and see," laughed Sir Geoffrey; "Goodbye, little one! Next time, I suppose, daddy will have put my nose out of joint, and you won't have anything to say to me--eh?"
She grew crimson to her ear-tips. "Never! never! never!" she cried, stamping her foot wilfully; "we's goin' to live together for everan'everan'--aye!"
The bystanders laughed at her sudden passion, and Sir Geoffrey's thin, ruddy face actually flushed a still deeper red.
"All right, little lady," he said half-sheepishly. "Never you fear!
I'll keep my promise for ever an' never an'-naye!"