Tante Part 39

She spoke with a touch of severity, as though in Karen's tears she felt an unexpressed accusation.

"Not for that," Karen spoke with difficulty. "But to have me with you again. It will not be a trouble?"

There was a little silence and then, her severity pa.s.sing to melancholy reproof, Madame von Marwitz said: "Did we not, long since, speak of this, Karen? Have you forgotten? Can you so wound me once again? Only my child's grief can excuse her. It is a sorrow to see your life in ruins; I had hoped before I died to see it joyous and secure. It is a sorrow to know that you have maimed yourself; that you are tied to an unworthy man. But how could it be a trouble to me to have you with me? It is a consolation--my only consolation in this calamity. With me you shall find peace and happiness again."

She laid her hand on Karen's head. Karen put her hand to her lips.

"There. That is well," said Madame von Marwitz with a sigh, bending to kiss her. "That is my child. Tante is sad at heart. It is a heavy blow.

But her child is welcome."

When she had gone Karen lay, her face in the billows of the bed, while she fixed her thoughts on Tante's last words.

They became a sing-song monotone. "Tante is sad at heart. But her child is welcome. It is a heavy blow. But her child is welcome."

After the anguish there was a certain ease. She rested in the given rea.s.surance. Yet the sing-song monotone oppressed her.

She felt presently that her hat, wrenched to one side, and still fixed to her hair by its pins, was hurting her. She unfastened it and dropped it to the floor. She felt too tired to do more just then.

Soon after this the door opened and Mrs. Talcott appeared carrying a candle, a can of hot water, towels and sheets.

Karen drew herself up, murmuring some vague words of welcome, and Mrs.

Talcott, after setting the candle on the dressing-table and the hot water in the basin, remarked: "Just you lie down again, Karen, and let me wash your face for you. You must be pretty tired and dirty after that long journey."

But Karen put her feet to the ground. They just sustained her. "Thank you, Mrs. Talcott. I will do it," she said.

She bent over the water, and, while she washed, Mrs. Talcott, with deliberate skill, made up the bed. Karen sank in a chair.

"You poor thing," said Mrs. Talcott, turning to her as she smoothed down the sheet; "Why you're green. Sit right there and I'll undress you. Yes; you're only fit to be put to bed."

She spoke with mild authority, and Karen, under her hands, relapsed to childhood.

"This all the baggage you've brought?" Mrs. Talcott inquired, finding a nightdress in Karen's dressing-case. She expressed no surprise when Karen said that it was all, pa.s.sed the nightdress over her head and, when she had lain down, tucked the bed-clothes round her.

"Now what you want is a hot-water bottle and some dinner. I guess you're hungry. Did you have any lunch on the train?"

"I've had some chocolate and a bun and some milk, oh yes, I had enough,"

said Karen faintly, raising her hand to her forehead; "but I must be hungry; for my head aches so badly. How kind you are, Mrs. Talcott."

"You lie right there and I'll bring you some dinner." Mrs. Talcott was swiftly tidying the room.

"But what of yours, Mrs. Talcott? Isn't it your dinner-time?"

"I've had my supper. I have supper early these days."

Karen dimly reflected, when she was gone, that this was an innovation.

Whoever Madame von Marwitz's guests, Mrs. Talcott had, until now, always made an _acte de presence_ at every meal. She was tired and not feeling well enough after her illness, she thought.

Mrs. Talcott soon returned with a tray on which were set out hot _consommee_ and chicken and salad, a peach beside them. Hot-house fruit was never wanting when Madame von Marwitz was at Les Solitudes.

"Lie back. I'll feed it to you," said Mrs. Talcott. "It's good and strong. You know Adolphe can make as good a _consommee_ as anybody, if he's a mind to."

"Is Adolphe here?" Karen asked as she swallowed the spoonfuls.

"Yes, I sent for Adolphe to Paris a week ago," said Mrs. Talcott.

"Mercedes wrote that she'd soon be coming with friends and wanted him.

He'd just taken a situation, but he dropped it. Her new motor's here, too, down from London. The chauffeur seems a mighty nice man, a sight nicer than Hammond." Hammond had been Madame von Marwitz's recent coachman. Mrs. Talcott talked on mildly while she fed Karen who, in the whirl of trivial thoughts, turning and turning like midges over a deep pool, questioned herself, with a vague wonder that she was too tired to follow: "Did Tante say anything to me about coming to Cornwall?"

Mrs. Talcott, meanwhile, as Madame von Marwitz had prophesied, asked no questions.

"Now you have a good long sleep," she said, when she rose to go. "That's what you need."

She needed it very much. The midges turned more and more slowly, then sank into the pool; mist enveloped everything, and darkness.

CHAPTER x.x.x

Karen was waked next morning by the familiar sound of the _Wohltemperirtes Clavier_.

Tante was at work in the music-room and was playing the prelude in D flat, a special favourite of Karen's.

She lay and listened with a curious, cautious pleasure, like that with which, half awake, one may guide a charming dream, knowing it to be a dream. There was so much waiting to be remembered; so much waiting to be thought. Tante's beautiful notes, rising to her like the bubbles of a spring through clear water, seemed to encircle her, ringing her in from the wider consciousness.

While she listened she looked out at the branches of young leaves, softly stirring against the morning sky. There was her wall-paper, with the little pink flower creeping up it. She was in her own little bed.

Tante was practising. How sweet, how safe, it was. A drowsy peace filled her. It was slowly that memory, lapping in, like the sinister, dark waters of a flood under doors and through crevices, made its way into her mind, obliterating peace, at first, rather than revealing pain.

There was a fear formless and featureless; and there was loss, dreadful loss. And as the sense of loss grew upon her, consciousness grew more vivid, bringing its visions.

This hour of awakening. Gregory's eyes smiling at her, not cold, not hard eyes then. His hand stretched out to hers; their morning kiss.

Tears suddenly streamed down her face.

It was impossible to hide them from Mrs. Talcott, who came in carrying a breakfast tray; but Karen checked them, and dried her eyes.

Mrs. Talcott set the tray down on the little table near the bed.

"Is it late, Mrs. Talcott?" Karen asked.

"It's just nine; Mercedes is up early so as to get some work in before she goes out motoring."

"She is going motoring?"

"Yes, she and Mr. Drew are going off for the day." Mrs. Talcott adjusted Karen's pillow.

"But I shall see Tante before she goes?" It was the formless, featureless fear that came closer.

"My, yes! You'll see her all right," said Mrs. Talcott. "She was asking after you the first thing and hoped you'd stay in bed till lunch. Now you eat your breakfast right away like a good girl."

Karen tried to eat her breakfast like a good girl and the sound of the _Wohltemperirtes Clavier_ seemed again to encircle and sustain her.