Florence Barclay - The Mistress of Shenstone стр 7.

Mrs. OMara, he said; she must weep, and she must sleep.

She does not weep easily, sir, replied Margaret OMara, and I have known her to lie widely awake throughout an entire night with less cause for sorrow than this.

Ah, said the doctor; and he looked keenly at the woman from the Lodge. I wonder what else you have known? he thought. But he did not voice the conjecture. Deryck Brand rarely asked questions of a third person. His patients never had to find out that his knowledge of them came through the gossip or the breach of confidence of others.

At last he could allow that fixed unseeing gaze no longer. He decided to do what was necessary, with a quiet nod, in response to Margaret OMaras imploring look. He turned back the loose sleeve of the silk nightdress, one firm hand grasped the soft arm beneath it; the other passed over it for a moment with swift skilful pressure. Even Margarets anxious eyes saw nothing more; and afterwards Myra often wondered what could have caused that tiny scar upon the whiteness of her arm.

Before long she was quietly asleep. The doctor stood looking down upon her. There was tragedy to him in this perfect loveliness. Now the clear candour of the grey eyes was veiled, the childlike look was no longer there. It was the face of a woman and of a woman who had lived, and who had suffered.

Watching it, the doctor reviewed the history of those ten years of wedded life; piecing together that which she herself had told him; his own shrewd surmisings; and facts, which were common knowledge.

So much for the past. The present, for a few hours at least, was merciful oblivion. What would the future bring? She had bravely and faithfully put from her all temptation to learn the glory of life, and the completeness of love, from any save from her own husband. And he had failed to teach. Can the deaf teach harmony, or the blind reveal the beauties of blended colour?

But the future held no such limitations. The garden enclosed was no longer barred against all others by an owner who ignored its fragrance. The gate would be on the latch, though all unconscious until an eager hand pressed it, that its bolts and bars were gone, and it dare swing open wide.

Ah, mused the doctor. Will the right man pass by? Youth teaches youth; but is there a man amongst us strong enough, and true enough, and pure enough, to teach this woman, nearing thirty, lessons which should have been learned during the golden days of girlhood. Surely somewhere on this earth the One Man walks, and works, and waits, to whom she is to be the One Woman? God send him her way, in the fulness of time.

And in that very hour while at last Myra slept, and the doctor watched, and mused, and wondered in that very hour, under an Eastern sky, a strong man, sick of life, worn and disillusioned, fighting a deadly fever, in the sultry atmosphere of a soldiers tent, cried out in bitterness of soul: O God, let me die! Then added the never-the-less which always qualifies a brave souls prayer for immunity from pain: Unless unless, O God, there be still some work left on this earth which only I can do.

And the doctor had just said: Send him her way, O God, in the fulness of time.

The two prayers reached the Throne of Omniscience together.

Deryck Brand, looking up, saw the quiet eyes of Margaret OMara gazing gratefully at him, across the bed. Thank you, she whispered.

He smiled. Never to be done lightly, Mrs. OMara, he said. Everything else should be tried first. But there are exceptions to the strictest rules, and it is fatal weakness to hesitate when confronted by the exception. Send for me, when she wakes; and, meanwhile, lie down on that couch yourself and have some sleep. You are worn out.

The doctor turned away; but not before he had caught the sudden look of dumb anguish which leaped into those quiet eyes. He reached the door; paused a moment; then came back.

Mrs. OMara, he said, with a hand upon her shoulder, you have a sorrow of your own?

She drew away from him, in terror. Oh, hush! she whispered. Dont ask! Dont unnerve me, sir. Help me to think of her, only. Then, more calmly: But of course I shall think of none but her, while she needs me. Only only, sir as you are so kind she drew from her bosom a crumpled telegram, and handed it to the doctor. Mine came at the same time as hers, she said, simply.

The doctor unfolded the War Office message.

Regret to report Sergeant OMara killed in assault on Targai yesterday.

He was a good husband, said Margaret OMara, simply; and we were very happy.

The doctor held out his hand. I am proud to have met you, Mrs. OMara. This seems to me the bravest thing I have ever known a woman do.

She smiled through her tears. Thank you, sir, she said, tremulously. But it is easier to bear my own sorrow, when I have work to do for her.

God Himself comfort you, my friend, said Deryck Brand, and it was all he could trust his voice to say; nor was he ashamed that he had to fumble blindly for the handle of the door.

The doctor had finished breakfast, and was asking Groatley for a time-table, when word reached him that Lady Ingleby was awake. He went upstairs immediately.

Myra was sitting up in bed, propped with pillows. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes bright and hard.

She held out her hand to the doctor.

How good you have been, she said, speaking very fast, in a high unnatural voice: I am afraid I have given you a great deal of trouble. I dont remember much about last night, excepting that they said Michael had been killed. Has Michael really been killed, do you think? And will they give me details? Surely I have a right to know details. Nothing can alter the fact that I was Michaels wife, can it? Do go to breakfast, Maggie. There is nothing gained by standing there, smiling, and saying you do not want any breakfast. Everybody wants breakfast at nine oclock in the morning. I should want breakfast, if Michael had not been killed. Tell her she ought to have breakfast, Sir Deryck. I believe she has been up all night. It is such a comfort to have her. She is so brave and bright; and so full of sympathy.

She is very brave, said the doctor; and you are right as to her need of breakfast. Go down-stairs for a little while, Mrs. OMara. I will stay with Lady Ingleby.

She moved obediently to the door; but Sir Deryck reached it before her. And the famous London specialist held the door open for the sergeants young widow, with an air of deference such as he would hardly have bestowed upon a queen.

Then he came back to Lady Ingleby. His train left in three-quarters of an hour. But his task here was not finished. She had slept; but before he dare leave her, she must weep.

Where is Peter? inquired the excited voice from the bed. He always barks to be let out, in the morning; but I have heard nothing of him yet.

He was exhausted last night, poor little chap, said the doctor. He could scarcely walk. I carried him up, myself; and put him on the bed in the next room. The coat was still there, I wrapped him in it. He licked my hand, and lay down, content.

I want to see him, said Lady Ingleby. Michael loved him. He seems all I have left of Michael.

I will fetch him, said the doctor.

He went into the adjoining room, leaving the door ajar. Myra heard him reach the bed. Then followed a long silence.

What is it? she called at last. Is he not there? Why are you so long?

Then the doctor came back. He carried something in his arms, wrapped in the old shooting jacket.