Afterwards Part 28

As the clocks were striking ten on the following morning, the morning of Iris Wayne's wedding day, Anstice came slowly down the garden to where his car waited by the gate.

It was a glorious September morning, the whole world bathed in a flood of golden sunshine, and the soft, warm air was heavy with the scent of sweet-peas, of stocks, of the hundred and one fragrant flowers which deck the late summer days. Away over the fields hung an enchanting blue haze which promised yet greater heat when it too should have dissolved before the mellow rays of the sun; and if there be any truth in the old saw that happy is the portion of the bride on whom the sun shall shine, then truly the lot of Iris Wayne should be a happy one.

But in Anstice's face there was no reflected sunshine on this auspicious morning. Rather did he look incredibly haggard and worn, and his colourless lips and purple-shadowed eyes were in strangest contrast to the smiling face of Nature.

It was only by a very strong effort of will that Anstice had driven himself forth to embark upon his day's work. The horrible night through which he had pa.s.sed had left traces on both body and soul; and the thought of that which was to happen to-day, the thought of the ceremony in the little flower-decked church by which the girl he adored would be given as wife to another man was nothing short of torture to this man who loved her.

He would have given half he possessed to be able to blot out this day from his calendar--to pa.s.s the whole of it in a state of oblivion, of forgetfulness, to cheat life of its fiercest suffering for a few hours at least; but Iris herself blocked the way to that last indulgence. She had bidden him remember--for her sake--that the way he had taken was not in truth the way out; and although every nerve in his body cried out for relief, nothing in the world could have persuaded him to mar Iris'

wedding-day by an act whose commission would have grieved her had she known of it.

And since to sit at home, brooding over the dimly-remembered events of the preceding night, would be fatal, there was nothing for it but to go out and strive to forget his own mental agony in an attempt to alleviate the physical suffering of those who trusted him to relieve their bodily woes at least.

He was about to enter his car when he heard the hoot of a motor-horn behind him; and turning round, one foot on the step, saw his friendly rival, Dr. Willows, driving up to intercept him.

"Hallo, Anstice, glad you're not out. I wanted to see you."

Anstice moved forward to meet him, but Dr. Willows, an agile little man of middle age, hopped out of his car, and taking Anstice's arm moved with him out of ear-shot of the waiting chauffeur.

"Well?" Anstice's voice was not inviting.

"It's about that affair at Cherry Orchard." Involuntarily Anstice's arm stiffened, and the other man dropped it as he went on speaking. "I was called in last night, and hearing you were ill--by the way, are you better now?" He broke off abruptly and peered into Anstice's face with disconcerting keenness.

"Quite, thanks. It was only a temporary indisposition," returned Anstice coldly; and Dr. Willows relaxed his gaze.

"Glad to hear it--though you look pretty seedy this morning. You know you really work too hard, Anstice. I a.s.sure you your predecessor didn't take half the trouble with his patients that you do----"

"You'll excuse me reminding you that I have not begun my round yet."

Anstice interrupted him impatiently. "You were saying you were called in to Cherry Orchard----"

"Yes. The little girl was badly burnt--owing to some carelessness on the part of the servants--and since you were not available----"

"Who told you I was not available?" His tone was grim.

"Why, Miss Wayne, of course. You know she and Mr. Cheniston came on to see me after finding you weren't able to go owing to being seedy yourself"--even Anstice's sore spirit could not doubt the little man's absolute ignorance of the nature of his supposed illness--"and they asked me to go in your place. So as it was an urgent case of course I did not hesitate to go."

"Of course not." Anstice strove to speak naturally. "Well, you went?"

"Yes, and treated the child. As you know, she is only a kiddie, and the shock has been as bad as the actual burns, though they are severe enough."

"Have you been there to-day?"

"No--that's what I came to see you about. I stayed pretty late last night, and left the child asleep; but now, of course, you will take over the case. Mrs. Carstairs understood I was only filling your place, you know."

"Do you think"--Anstice hesitated oddly, and Dr. Willows told himself the man looked shockingly ill--"do you think Mrs. Carstairs would prefer you to continue the case?"

"Good Lord, no!" Dr. Willows stared. "Why, what bee have you got in your bonnet now? I told you Mrs. Carstairs knew I was only representing you because you were ill, and couldn't come, and I told her I would run over first thing this morning and see if you were able to take on the case yourself."

"What did Mrs. Carstairs say to that?"

"She agreed, of course. And if I were you"--Dr. Willows felt vaguely uncomfortable as he stood there in the morning sunshine--"I'd go round pretty soon." He looked at his watch ostentatiously. "By Jove, it's after ten--I must get on. Then you'll go round to Cherry Orchard this morning?"

"Yes." Anstice accepted the inevitable. "I'll go round almost immediately. Thanks very much for coming, Willows. I ... I'm grateful to you."

"Oh, that's all right!" Dr. Willows, relieved by the change in Anstice's manner, waved his hand airily and returned to his car; and as soon as he was out of sight Anstice entered his own motor and turned in the direction of Cherry Orchard.

After all, he said to himself as the car glided swiftly over the hard white road, there was no reason why Mrs. Carstairs should find anything suspicious in his inability to visit Cherry Orchard on the previous evening. Doctors were only human after all--p.r.o.ne to the same ills to which other men are subject; and although the exigencies of one of the most exacting professions in the world would seem to inspire a corresponding endurance in its members, there are moments in which even the physician must pause in his ministrations to the world, in order, as it were, to tune up his own bodily frame to meet the demands upon it.

Of course it was possible that Cheniston had divulged to his sister the true reason of Anstice's non-arrival; but Anstice did not think it likely; for although there was, and always must be, a strong antagonism between the two men, Cheniston was an honourable man; and the secret upon which he had stumbled was one which a man of honour would instinctively keep to himself.

That his secret was safe with Iris, Anstice knew beyond any question; and as his car swept up the drive to the jasmine-covered door of Cherry Orchard he told himself that it was only his conscience which made him feel as though his absence on the previous evening must have looked odd, unusual, even--he could not help the word--suspicious.

The door was opened to him by Hagyard, and there was no doubting the sincerity of his welcome.

"Good morning, sir. I was looking out for you.... Miss Cherry's awakened, they say, and is in a sad state."

His unusual loquacity was a proof of his mental disturbance, and Anstice spoke sharply.

"Where is she? Shall I go upstairs?"

"If you please, sir. Here is Tochatti come for you, sir." And he stood aside to allow the woman to approach.

"Will you come this way, signor?" Her foreign accent was more marked than usual; and looking at her worn and sallow countenance Anstice guessed she had not slept.

He followed her without asking any questions, and in another moment was in Cherry's bedroom, the little white and pink room whose wall papers and chintzes were stamped with the life-like bunches of cherries on which he had once remarked admiringly, to the little owner's gratification.

In the small white bed lay Cherry, her head swathed in bandages, one little arm bandaged likewise; and beside her knelt Chloe Carstairs, her face like marble, her silky black hair dishevelled on her brow, as though she, too, had pa.s.sed a sleepless night. Cherry's brown eyes were widely opened with an expression of half-wondering pain in their usually limpid depths, and from time to time she uttered little moans which sounded doubly piteous coming from so self-controlled a child as she.

"Dr. Anstice--at last!" Chloe rose swiftly from her knees and came to meet him with both hands outstretched. "I thought you were never coming--that Dr. Willows had forgotten to tell you----"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carstairs." He knew at once, with a relief which would not be repressed, that Cheniston had kept his miserable secret. "I only saw Dr. Willows half an hour ago, and came at once. How is Cherry this morning--did she have any sleep?"

"Yes, thank G.o.d." Listening to her low voice, Anstice wondered why he had ever thought her lacking in affection for her child. "Dr. Willows was most kind--he stayed half the night with us and Cherry slept for some hours after he left. But now she is awake, as you see, and I'm afraid she is suffering horribly."

"Let me see what I can do for her, will you?"

He approached the bed and sat down quietly by it, while Cherry ceased for a second to moan, and her brown eyes besought him, more eloquently than speech, to give her relief from this quite unusual state of affairs. At first he was not certain that the child recognized him; but presently her uninjured hand came gropingly towards him; and as he took the tiny fingers in his own Anstice felt a sudden revival of the energies which had seemed so dead, so burnt-out within him on this beautiful September morning.

"Well, Cherry, this is bad luck, isn't it?" He spoke very gently, studying her little face the while. "But don't lose heart--this pain won't last long, it will soon run away. Is it _very_ bad?"

"It's _rather_ bad, thank you, my dear." Even in the midst of her tribulation Cherry strove heroically for her own gracious tone, and the familiar term of endearment sounded strangely pathetic to-day. "But you'll send it quite 'way, won't you?"

"Yes. I send away all pains," returned Anstice, lying n.o.bly. "But first of all you must let me see just what sort of pain this one is, and then I shall know how to get rid of it. You don't mind me touching you, do you?"

"N-not much, my dear." Cherry's lips quivered, and Chloe Carstairs turned away as though unable to bear the sight of her little daughter's suffering any longer.

Quickly and tenderly Anstice made his examination without disturbing more of the dressings than was absolutely necessary; and by dint of questioning Mrs. Carstairs found that the child's brow had been badly scorched where her brown curls had caught fire, and that one little arm had suffered a grievous burn. These were the only outward signs of the accident, but the child had undergone a severe shock; and Anstice felt a sudden misgiving as he looked at the pinched little face, and noted the renewal of the pitiful moans which even Cherry's fort.i.tude could not altogether repress.

The woman Tochatti had hovered in the background while he bent over the bed; and now, at a sign from him, she came forward silently.