Granny Marrable's words left Gwen unsuspicious that powers of exorcism had been imputed to her. The ascription of them might be--certainly was--nothing but an outcome of the overstrain and tension of the last few days, but the repetition of it in cold blood to its subject might have been taken to mean that it was a symptom of insanity. Gwen did not press her to tell more, as Dr. Nash made his appearance. The frequency of his visits was a source of uneasiness to her. She would have liked to hear him say there was now no need for him to come again till he was sent for.
"Any fresh developments?" said he, as Granny Marrable left the room to herald his arrival. He heard Gwen's account of her own experience in the night, and seemed disquieted. "I wish," said he abruptly, "that people would keep their letters to themselves. I am not to be told what was in the letter, I understand?" For Gwen had skipped the contents of it, merely saying that Mrs. Picture had asked to hear her letter read through again.
Then Widow Thrale came in, saying her mother was ready to see the doctor. Mother was with her mother, she said. The doctor departed into the bedroom.
"How long has your mother been awake?" asked Gwen under no drawback about the designation.
"Quite half an hour. I told her your ladyship was having a little breakfast. She always asks for you."
"I heard that she was talking, through the door. What has she been talking about?"
Ruth's memory went back conscientiously, for a starting-point. "About her annuity," she said, "first. Then about the young children--little Dave and Dolly. That's mother's little Dave, only it's all so strange to think of. And then she talked about the accident."
"What about her annuity? I'm curious about that. I wonder who sends it to her?"
"She says it comes from the Office, because they know her address. She says Susan Burr took them the new address, when they left Skillick's.
She says she writes her name on the back...."
"It's a cheque, I suppose?"
"Your ladyship would know. Susan Burr takes it to the Bank and brings back the money." Ruth hesitated over saying:--"I would be happier my mother should not fret so about herself ... she was for making her will, and I told her there would be time for that."
"Oh yes--plenty!" Gwen thought to herself that old Mrs. Picture's testamentary arrangements were of less importance than tranquillity, as matters stood at present. "What did she say of Dave and Dolly?"
"She was put about to think how they would be told, if she died."
"How would they be told?... I can't think." Gwen asked herself the question, and parried it.
Ruth Thrale escaped in a commonplace. The dear children would have to be told, but they would not grieve for long. Children didn't.
Gwen hoped she was right--always a good thing to do. But what had her mother said about the accident? Oh--the accident! Well--she remembered very little of it. She did not know why she should have become half unconscious. The last thing she could be clear about was that Dave was shouting for joy, and Dolly frightened and crying. Then a gentleman carried her upstairs out of a carriage.
"No!" said Gwen. "Carried her downstairs into a carriage.... Oh no!--I know what she meant. It was my cousin Percy, not the fireman."
At this point Dr. Nash returned from the bedroom. Gwen began hoping that he had found his patient really better, but something stopped her speech, and she said:--"Oh!" Ruth Thrale was outside the room by then, far enough to miss the disappointment in her voice.
Dr. Nash glanced round to make sure she was out of hearing, and closed the door. "I don't like to say much, either way," said he.
Gwen turned pale. "You need not be afraid to tell me," she said.
"I see you know what I mean," said he, reading into her thoughts.
"Miracle apart, one knows what to expect. I don't believe in any miracle, though certainly she has everything in her favour for it, in one sense."
"Meaning?" said Gwen interrogatively.
"Meaning that she has absolutely nothing the matter with her. If she has any active disorder, all I can say is it has baffled me to find it out."
"But, then, why?..."
"Why be frightened? Listen, and I'll tell you.... We gain nothing, you know, by not looking the facts in the face."
"I know. Go on." Gwen sat down, and waited. Some faces lose under stress of emotion. It was a peculiarity of this young lady's that every fresh tension added to the surpassing beauty of hers.
"I want you," said the doctor, speaking in a dry, businesslike way--"I want you to go back to when you brought her down here from London. Think of her then."
"I am thinking of her. I can remember her then, perfectly." And Gwen, thinking of that journey, saw her old companion plainly enough. A very old delicate woman, in need of consideration and care. No bedridden invalid! "When did the change show itself?" The doctor took the image in her mind for granted, successfully.
Then Gwen cast about to find an answer. "I think it must have been ..."
said she, and stopped.
"When did you _see_ it?"
"When I came back, first. After I told her, still more."
"After that?"
"I thought she was improving, every day."
"I thought you thought so."
"And you mean that it was a mistake. Oh dear!"
The doctor shook his head, slowly and sadly. "Yesterday, at this time,"
said he, "she could sit up in bed. With an exertion, you know! To-day she can't do it at all." Both remained silent, and seemed to accept a conclusion that did not need words. Then the doctor resumed, speaking very quietly:--"It is always like this. Two steps back and one forward--two steps back and one forward. We see the one step on because we want to. We don't want to see what's unwelcome. So we don't discount the losses."
Then Gwen, with that quiet resolution which he had known to be part of her character, or he would scarcely have been so explicit, said:--"What will she die of?"
"Old age, accelerated by mental perturbation."
"Can you at all guess when?"
"If she had any definite malady, I could guess better. She may linger on for weeks. It won't go to months, in any case. Or she may pop off before that clock strikes."
"Shall we tell them?"
"I say no. _No._ They will probably have her the longer for not knowing.
And, mind you, she is keeping her faculties. She's wonderfully bright, and is suffering absolutely nothing."
"You are sure of that?"
"Absolutely sure. Go in and talk to her now. You'll find her quite herself, but for a little fancifulness at times. It really is no more than that.... By-the-by!..."
"What?"
"Do _you_ know what was in the letter that upset her so? The old Granny did not say what was in it, and charged me to say nothing to her daughter." The doctor had all but said:--"To _their_ daughter!"
"I know what was in the letter." Gwen paused a moment to consider how much she should tell, and then took the doctor into her confidence; not exhaustively, but sufficiently. "You are supposed to know nothing about it," said she. "But I don't think it much matters, so long as Ruth--Widow Thrale--does not know. That is her mother's wish. I don't suppose she really minds, about you."