GITA blinked at the sunlight in astonishment. She had believed she was in for another wakeful night; and she remembered nothing but tearing off her clothes and flinging herself into bed—not caring if she never brushed her teeth again, nor washed her face. She must have fallen asleep at once!
She preferred not to think at present, and there was safety in routine. She put on her dressing-gown and went down the hall to one of the two bathrooms the manor house boasted. Very ugly and unluxurious bathrooms, installed in the nineteenth century. After a cold shower her brain felt disconcertingly clear, but she hummed a tune and rubbed herself into a glow.
As she left the bathroom she met the nurse in the hall.
“How is the patient?” she asked politely.
“His shoulder is very painful. I’ve just telephoned to Dr. Pelham, asking if I shall give him another opiate——I couldn’t take the responsibility of letting you see him,” she added hastily.
“Oh, of course not. What time do you expect Dr. Pelham?”
“He’ll come at once.”
Gita nodded and went into her bedroom and dressed slowly.
She was aware that she had slept off her cold fury, and felt something like sympathy for Eustace, disabled, and suffering, no doubt, as much in mind as in body. . . . Probably a man did have a grain of excuse when he loved a woman and despaired of winning her with charm and good manners. Lost his head, poor wretch . . . brain hopelessly confused by fumes of passion and all that . . . tumbled out of hard-won psychological differentiations straight into generalities. Passion must awaken passion; all that old tosh. . . . He must feel like a fool—worse than failure, for Eustace Bylant. . . . She did feel sorry for him, for she had admired him prodigiously, and loved him in a way.
She was devoutly thankful she hadn’t killed him. He’d live to write more books—perhaps better ones. Might get some drama into them after that seismic upheaval inside him that must have astonished him as much as herself. . . . Might even marry again, although he’d done well enough as a bachelor. She doubted if he cared deeply about domestic routine. He’d had his grand passion—like Lee Clavering over that strange Countess Zattiany she’d heard so much about. Doubtful if Clavering would have written a really great play if Zattiany hadn’t shocked him out of his pleasant pastures into a tropical jungle. He might be dour to look at and none too expansive socially, but it was evident his imagination worked at white heat, and no doubt he was grateful whether he admitted it or not. Eustace would live to be grateful to her.
At all events one thing hadn’t happened. She remembered that sometime last night she had experienced a fleeting fear that that horrible episode would destroy all she had learned—recall all she had banished—during this past auriferous year, and she would be as hard and hating and handicapped as when she had just escaped from her old life . . . destroy all power of appreciation and enjoyment, all her new adaptability, all interest in the future.
But all experience counted, apparently. She would always think of last night with a shudder, but at least it had not revived her old abhorrence of men because one man had mauled her—as other men had tried to, sometimes had done, in the past. A second neurosis might be worse than the first. No doubt her sense of justice, of proportion, developing unconsciously, had balanced her unalterably.
She put on a dark blue skirt and sweater, automatically rejecting the bright colors she preferred, and even powdered her face to subdue her own color. Noblesse oblige! And if she didn’t feel hard she certainly felt severely practical as she went down to meet Dr. Pelham. Romance had toppled over the horizon.
He looked at her keenly as he entered and asked professionally: “I hope you got a little sleep?”
“Disgraceful, but I did. Reaction, no doubt. Where’s Elsie?”
He answered evasively. “She’s rather tired. No doubt she’ll be over later.”
“She’s angry with me because she thinks I shot Eustace on purpose. I never knew Elsie to be unreasonable before.”
“Oh—I’m sure she can’t think that! But she’s very sensitive under that calm exterior, and she had a bad shock last night. I suppose you haven’t seen my patient?”
“Nurse said I couldn’t.”
“She must get some sleep as the other nurse can’t be here before night. Perhaps you’ll sit with him for a few hours?”
Gita turned pale, but answered steadily: “Certainly, if you think he can stand having me near him. He probably knows it was I who shot him—might feel a trifle nervous.”
Dr. Pelham smiled for the first time. “I’ll put him to sleep again.” And he nodded and ran up the stair.
Gita wandered about the garden until he came down, but she thought neither of him nor of Eustace, but of Elsie. She must win her back. Life would be unendurable without Elsie. Of course she was in love with Eustace. Well, here was her chance. She could stay here, and read to him when he was better, correct his proofs, take his dictation if he felt inspired to write a story. . . . Ideal marriage. . . . Why had he been so blind?
“Idiots, all of us.” And she sighed.
Dr. Pelham emerged from the house and joined her. She wished she were actress enough to feign wifely anxiety.
“How is he?” she asked, and knew that her tones were flat.
“Well enough, so far. There’s always danger of infection, in spite of every precaution. I shall watch him, of course.”
“You’ll stay on, then?”
“Certainly. He’s my patient, to say nothing of old friendship. I have a vacation due me, and I’ll take it now.”
They were both as emotional as the garden slugs, regarding each other as if their slender past were obliterated.
“Tell Elsie to come along and not be a fool,” she said. “She’d be a brute to leave me alone. I don’t want to sit there all by myself, eaten up with remorse, and if you’ve put him to sleep we can talk.”
His eyes, which had been almost blank, became keen once more. He opened his mouth as if to ask an irresistible question, then turned on his heel and was gone.