1

abruptly, as the strung ball snaps back to its wooden cup, aliette's soul returned to its body.

waking, she knew that she had fallen asleep by the open window; that somebody was knocking on the outer door of the flat, somebody who called insistently, "mr. cavendish, mr. cavendish. i've a message for you, mr. cavendish."

her heart thumping, her head still muzzy with dreams, aliette ran across the sitting-room, out into the hall; unchained, unlatched the door. the night-porter stood before her. his shirt was open at the neck; she could see the veins in his throat throb to his words: "is your husband awake, madam? he's wanted on the telephone. his mother's house. it's very urgent."

"mr. cavendish is asleep." aliette's heart still thumped, but she spoke quietly enough. "i'll go and wake him. wait here, please."

she darted back to the door of their bedroom; knocked; opened. the light by the bed still burned, showing her lover's face just roused from the pillow.

"am i wanted?" he asked.

"yes, dear." aliette controlled her nerves. "bruton street's asking for you on the telephone. i'm afraid your mother's been taken ill."

"i'll be down in a second." he was out of bed and into his dressing-gown before she could stop him. she thought, "if it's bad news, he'll have to go to bruton street. he'll have to get dressed." she said, "you'd better get some clothes on. i'll go down and find out exactly what's the matter."

after a second's hesitation, he decided, "you're right"; and made for his dressing-room. aliette went back to the outer door. the night-porter still waited. she asked him, "who telephoned?"

"a servant, i think."

"did she say why she wanted to speak to my husband?"

"no. only that it was very urgent."

"is the lift still working?"

"yes, madam."

"then i'll come down immediately."

aliette's mind, as she followed the slippered man along the cold stone corridor to the lift-shaft, worked rapidly. if julia cavendish had been taken ill--and obviously julia cavendish must have been taken ill--the sooner she and ronnie got to bruton street the better.

she asked the porter, "what's the time?"

he told her, "three o'clock."

"can you get me a taxi?"

"i'll do my best, madam."

the lift was working badly. the slowness fretted her imagination. suppose julia cavendish were--more than ill; suppose she were--dead?

at last they reached the ground-floor. the night porter, flinging back the iron gates, let her out and made for the street. aliette, running to the telephone-box, picked up the receiver.

"i want to speak to mr. cavendish, mr. ronald cavendish. is that mr. cavendish?" kate's voice sounded stupid, excitable, over the wire.

"no, it's mrs. cavendish. is that kate?"

"yes, mrs. ronnie."

"mr. cavendish will be down in a minute. what's the matter?"

"mrs. cavendish has been taken ill. she's very bad indeed. she told us to telephone for mr. ronnie."

"you telephoned for a doctor?"

"oh yes, mrs. ronnie. we did that first thing. but sir heron's out of town."

"then you should have telephoned to another doctor."

"we never thought of that." obviously the maid had lost her head. "we thought we'd better telephone mr. ronnie first. that's what she said we was to do."

"wait." aliette thought swiftly. "isn't there a doctor in bruton street?"

"oh yes, mrs. ronnie. dr. redbank."

"you'd better send for him immediately. don't waste time telephoning. go yourself. . . . and, kate, you can tell mrs. cavendish that mr. ronald and myself will be round in less than half an hour. can you give me any idea what's the matter with mrs. cavendish?"

"i don't know, mrs. ronnie, but smithers says she's very bad indeed. smithers says she woke up with her mouth full of blood. smithers says she doesn't know how she managed to ring her bell----"

the parlor-maid would have gone on talking, but aliette cut her short with a curt: "you're to go and fetch the doctor, kate. you're to go and fetch him at once. do you understand?"

"yes, mrs. ronnie."

aliette hung up the receiver; turned to find ronnie, apparently full dressed, at her side; explained things to him in three terse sentences; saw his face blanch; ran for the lift; swung-to the lift-gate; pressed the automatic button; reached her own floor, her own flat; twitched a fur coat from its peg; remembered something mollie had once told her about hemorrhages; darted into the kitchen; snatched what she wanted from the refrigerator; wrapped a dish-cloth about it; darted back to the lift.

downstairs, ronnie waited impatiently. "the taxi's here," he said.

they leaped into the taxi.

2

the shock of unexpected ill-news held both lovers rigid, speechless, as their vehicle, an old one, rattled and bumped over putney bridge; and when at last aliette spoke it was of those trivial things with which human beings console themselves against the threat of disaster. "how on earth did you manage to get dressed so quickly?"

"the old school trick." ronnie masked his anxiety with the semblance of a laugh. "trousers and an overcoat." but sheer anxiety forced the next words to his lips. "what do you think can have happened?"

"from what kate said, it sounded as though your mother had had a hemorrhage."

"a hemorrhage," repeated ronnie. and then, under his breath, as though trying to convince himself, "but she can't have had a hemorrhage."

the taxi rattled on down a gray and empty king's road, bringing back to aliette's mind the memory of that other drive she had taken in vision-land.

"what's that?" asked ronnie suddenly, pointing to the dish-cloth at her feet.

"ice. there's just a chance they won't have any."

they swung out of king's road into sloane street. under the lights of knightsbridge, ronnie, looking sideways at his mate, marveled at the composure of her face; marveled that her brain should have acted so swiftly in crisis. his own brain felt impotent, dumb. his heart hung like a nodule of ice in his breast. the nodule of ice sank into his bowels, turning his bowels to water. the wixton imagination pictured his mother helpless, in agony. he thought, "suppose we're too late. my god, suppose we're too late."

"i don't expect there's any immediate danger." aliette, fighting for her own composure, guessed the unspoken thought in her lover's mind. "servants always exaggerate."

ronnie wrenched down the window, leaned out. "hurry," he called to the driver, "hurry." the old taxi rattled to speed. hyde park corner flashed by--piccadilly.

"don't worry, dear," aliette managed to whisper. "the doctor will be there by now."

ronnie sat silent. it seemed as though, for the moment, he had forgotten her presence. nor could she be angry with him for that forgetting. "his mother," she thought; "his mother!"

at last they made bruton street. outside the open front door, waiting for them, stood kate. kate, the immaculate cap-and-aproned kate, was in tears. "oh, mr. ronnie," she sobbed, "i'm so glad you've come. i'm so glad you've come."

"doctor here?" julia cavendish's son, usually so affable with servants, snapped out his question as though he had been speaking to a defaulter.

"yes, mr. ronnie. i fetched him myself. he's with your mother now. he wants cook to go out and get some ice, but cook don't know," the domestically precise english vanished under stress of emergency, "where to get no ice."

"lucky you thought of bringing some." abruptly, rudely almost, ronnie snatched the dish-cloth from aliette's hand; and she watched him disappear, three at a bound, up the green-carpeted stairs.

"kate," she said quietly, "tell the taxi-driver to stop his engine and wait. we may want him for something."

3

ronnie, a little out of breath, found himself, on the second landing, confronted at the closed door of his mother's bedroom by his mother's woman, smithers. smithers was still in her dressing-gown--her hair disheveled, but her black eyes unpanicked.

"you can't go in, sir. the doctor's with her."

"i've got the ice." he made to push past the woman, but she put a hand on his arm.

"i'll take it to him, sir. your mother said you wasn't to go in."

"why not?"

"because of the blood. after the doctor came, she said you wasn't to see her till i'd put clean sheets on the bed. it's a hemorrhage, sir."

"i know. let me go in." again ronnie tried to push past the woman. again she restrained him. her black eyes seemed strangely hostile, resolute.

"it's a hemorrhage," she repeated fiercely, "and it's her own fault. time and again i've told her she ought to heed what sir heron said. but she wouldn't. she wouldn't give in." then, accusingly, "because she didn't want you and mrs. ronnie to know."

"know what?"

"that she had the consumption."

"consumption!" the word struck ronnie like the lash of a whip. he saw accusation--an accusation of selfishness--in the woman's hostile eyes. those eyes knew his whole story. he wanted to say to them: "we hadn't an idea. honestly, we hadn't the slightest idea." sir heron baynet's reported diagnosis recurred to his mind. "she isn't ill, but she has a tendency to illness." either the specialist had made a mistake, or else---- he realized, with a heart-rending clarity, that julia must have purposely concealed her danger, because--because of his own troubles.

the bedroom door opened noiselessly, and a clean-shaven intellectual face inspected him through gold-rimmed glasses.

"are you the patient's son?" asked dr. redbank; and then, seeing the dish-cloth in ronnie's hand, "is that the ice?"

"yes. can i come in?"

"if you like. but please understand she mustn't talk."

ronnie followed the man into the bedroom, and closed the door quietly behind him.

save for the glow of the bed-lamp, the room was in darkness. making his way round the foot of the bed, julia's son saw, in the light of that one lamp--the shade of it was crimson, crimson as those telltale marks on his mother's pillow--his mother's face.

the face lay on the stained pillow, pallid, motionless, the hair awry, the mouth half-open as though in pain. on the chin and on the half-open lips, blood clots showed like brown stains. but the blue eyes were wide open. motionless in their sockets, they recognized him.

stooping down, ronnie saw that julia would have spoken. remembering the doctor's warning, he said: "you're not to talk, mater. i'm here. aliette's here. it's quite all right." it seemed to him as though the blue eyes understood. they closed wearily; and a sigh, almost a sigh of relief, came through the half-opened lips. he thought, standing there by the bedside: "i am powerless. powerless to help. i can do nothing. nothing. why doesn't the doctor do something? why did he want that ice?"

then, glancing toward the shadowy fireplace, ronnie saw the doctor at work; heard the faint smash-smash of the poker handle on ice in a cloth. the doctor came to the bedside. he felt the doctor's hand on his arm; heard his authoritative whisper, "hold this for me, please"; and found himself grasping a soap-basin.

the soap-basin was full of crushed ice, of the ice aliette had remembered to bring. the doctor had been crushing the ice. now he was feeding the ice to his patient. piece by little piece he fed it--fed it between those half-open lips.

through interminable minutes ronnie, holding the soap-basin, watched. at last the doctor said: "one more piece, mrs. cavendish, just one more piece. it'll do you good." his mother tried to shake her head in refusal, but dr. redbank insisted. "there, that will do."

somehow julia's son knew her immediate danger over. for the first time he could hear her breathing. faint, irregular breathing. "she's asleep, isn't she?" he whispered, looking down at the closed eyes.

but at that, the eyes opened again. his mother seemed to be searching--searching for him about the darkness of the room. he bent over her, and it appeared to him that her pupils moved. "is there anything you want, mater?" he asked, forgetful of the doctor's warning. the eyes turned in their sockets.

following their glance, ronnie saw, beside the bed-lamp, a handkerchief--a stained handkerchief. scarcely conscious of his action, he fumbled in the pocket of the overcoat he was still wearing, found his own handkerchief, dipped it in the soap-basin, and wiped the blood-clots from his mother's lips. faintly, the lips murmured: "smithers--want smithers--want clean sheets."

"please don't talk, mrs. cavendish," interrupted the doctor's voice.

"you're all right now, mater." ronnie grasped the situation. "quite all right. i know exactly what you want done. i'll tell smithers for you." "she'd like her maid," he whispered to the doctor. "she'd like clean pillow-cases."

"of course she would." the answer sounded loud, almost cheerful. "of course, she'd like clean pillow-cases. but not for another half-hour, mrs. cavendish. i want you to rest. i must insist on your resting."

julia's eyes closed.

"we shall have to have a hospital-nurse," whispered dr. redbank. "if you'll stay with her i'll go and telephone for one." he tiptoed from the room, leaving mother and son alone.

for a long time, hours as it seemed, ronnie stood watchful. his mother must be asleep--safe--out of pain. a great rush of gratitude, gratitude to some unknown deity, overwhelmed him. quietly he drew a chair to the bedside. quietly he sat down. but the faint noise disturbed the woman on the bed. her eyelids fluttered; and she tried to speak--indistinctly, incoherently, choking on each word.

"ronnie,"--her first thoughts, as always, were for him--"did i--frighten--you?"

"mater," he implored, "please don't try and talk. if there's anything you want, just look at it, and i'll get it for you.''

"ice," she choked, "more ice."

every movement of her lips frightened him, but he managed to keep fear out of his voice.

"good for you. i'll get it."

he took the basin of ice from the bed-table, and fed it to her bit by bit, slowly, as dr. redbank had done.

the touch of her lips on his fingers almost unnerved him. the lips were so weak, so loving, so piteously grateful as--piece by piece--they sucked down the melting pellets. controlling himself for her sake, ronnie realized a little of the self-control, of the unselfishness which had so long locked those weak lips from revealing their own danger. and again, at that realization, he felt his heart melting, even as the ice melted.

"good man!" it was the doctor--whispering. "she can't have too much of that. i've sent your taxi for the nurse. it's her first hemorrhage, i suppose?"

"yes--as far as i know."

"h'm. i thought so. frightening things, hemorrhages. but there's no cause for immediate alarm. i'll wait till the nurse comes, and give her a second injection. you'd better go down and look after your wife."

on the landing, smithers still waited. "is she better, sir?" asked smithers.

"much better, smithers. she's out of danger. but you can't go in yet."

tiptoeing downstairs, ronald cavendish knew that the woman was watching him--blaming him. half-way down, he hesitated. "i can't face alie," he thought. "i can't face alie." then he turned, tiptoed upstairs again.

together, in silence, the son and the servant waited outside the mother's door.

4

aliette, too, waited--waited downstairs in the dining-room where kate had insisted on lighting a fire for her--waited and waited while the slow half-hours went by. she felt weary; but there was no sleep in her weariness. her ears, keyed to acutest tension, magnified every whisper in the house of illness; dr. redbank's feet in the hall, the jar of the front door, the taxi chugging away, the faint creak of carpeted stairs, the fainter clink of crockery in the basement.

at four o'clock kate came in with a pot of coffee; at half-past, smithers to ask if the nurse had arrived. aliette suffered both maids to go without question. in that well-ordered home she felt herself the useless stranger. her muscles yearned to be of use, to be doing something, anything, for julia. "i owe her so much," she thought; "such a debt of gratitude."

the impotence of her muscles stung her mind. her mind ached with memories, memories of julia, of her brusk kindliness, of her courage. "i wonder if she knew," thought aliette. and at that, painfully, her mind conjured up the "scene" she had made--julia comforting her--julia's unspoken challenge--her own promise. "she knew then," thought aliette. "she must have known. that was why she wanted to be certain--of me."

at last the nurse arrived. at last ronnie, tired out, white-faced, and unshaven, left his post on the landing and joined her.

she asked him, "how is she?"

"better. much better. she's asleep."

"isn't there anything i can do?"

"no, dear, nothing." his voice seemed curiously toneless, and after two or three nervous puffs at a cigarette he again went upstairs.

another half-hour went by. already aliette could see hints of dawn behind the dining-room curtains. now, knowing danger averted, her mind reacted. she wanted desperately to sleep. her eyes closed wearily. but her ears were still keen to sound. she heard the doctor's feet and ronnie's creep cautiously downstairs, heard their whispered colloquy at the dining-room door, woke from her brief doze before they could open it.

"i do hope you haven't been frightened." dr. redbank smiled professionally at the pale pretty woman by the fireside. "i hear we have to thank your thoughtfulness for the ice. most useful it was, too. i have assured your husband that there is no cause for immediate alarm."

"you're sure, doctor?"

"quite sure. however, as i understand that your mother-in-law's regular attendant is away, i purpose looking in tomorrow, or rather this morning, at about half-past ten. meanwhile, you must keep her quiet; and, of course, no solid food." he shook hands with her; and went out, accompanied by ronnie. aliette, still sleepy, heard the front door close gently behind him.

"good man, that," said ronnie, returning. he sat down heavily at the table, and tried to light himself another cigarette. but his hands trembled. the smoke seemed to stifle him.

"won't you have some coffee?" she asked, suddenly wide awake, and as suddenly aware of the misery in his eyes.

"thanks dear, not yet."

rising, she laid a hand on his arm.

"man," she ventured, "was it very terrible?"

"dreadful." his voice, usually so controlled, shook on the word, jangling her overwrought nerves to breaking strain. "she's dying. dying."

"but the doctor said----"

"never mind the doctor. i know. and alie," a sob tore at his diaphragm, "it's my fault."

"your fault?" awfully, she guessed his meaning.

"yes."

her hand dropped from his arm, and they stared at one another in silence.

"tell me," she said at last.

"no. not now. not yet." the remoteness of his eyes frightened her.

"i'd rather know," she pleaded; and again, "why is it your fault? how can it be your fault?"

"i'd rather not tell you." once more she caught that frightening remoteness in his eyes--in his very voice. then, awfully, his reserve broke. "she knew all the time, alie."

"knew what?" there was no need for her question.

"that she had consumption. that her only hope was to go away. she only stayed on in london for--for," the words choked in his throat, "my sake."

minutes passed. through the chinks in the curtains aliette could see dawn growing and growing. her mouth ached to comfort him; but she dared not speak. her eyes ached for tears; but she dared not shed a tear. superstition tortured her mind--it seemed to her as though, biblically, their sin had found them out. then resolutely, remembering the promise sealed by her own lips to the dying, she put superstition from her.

"not your fault," she said at last. "not even our fault. ronnie--believe me--even if she did know that she--that she was very ill--she knew that you and i loved her, that we couldn't, either of us, do without her. she's--she's not going to die. not with us, both of us, to nurse her--to look after her."

"alie--you--you believe there's a chance?" he rose from the table; and she saw that the remoteness had gone from his eyes.

"chance!" she smiled at him. "chance! it's not a question of chance, man. we'll make her get well."

and with those words, aliette knew that she had paid a little of her debt to them both.