"I will bring you your dressing-gown, if you will tell me where it is."
"I don"t know," said Annette; and then she recollected, and said, "I haven"t any things with me."
"Not even a handkerchief?"
"I think not a handkerchief."
"How long is it since you have slept?"
"I don"t know." These words seemed her whole stock-in-trade.
Mrs. Stoddart frowned.
"I can"t have you ill on my hands too," she said briskly; "one is enough." And she left the room, and presently came back with a gla.s.s with a few drops in it. She made Annette swallow them, and put a warm rug over her, and darkened the room.
And presently Annette"s eyes closed, and the anguish of the last two days was lifted from her, as a deft hand lifts a burden. She sighed and leaned her cheek against a pillow which was made of rest; and presently she was wandering in a great peace in a wide meadow beside a little stream whispering among its forget-me-nots. And across the white clover, and the daisies, and the little purple orchids, came the feet of one who loved her. And they walked together beside the stream, the kind, understanding stream, he and she--he and she together. And all was well, all was well.
Many hours later, Mrs. Stoddart and the doctor came and looked at her, and he thrust out his under lip.
"I can"t bear to wake her," she said.
"One little half-hour, then," he said, and went back to the next room.
Mrs. Stoddart sat down by the bed, and presently Annette, as if conscious of her presence, opened her eyes.
"I see now," she said slowly, looking at Mrs. Stoddart with the fixed gravity of a child, "I was wrong."
"How wrong, my dear?"
"Rivers are not meant for that, nor the little streams either. They are not meant to drown oneself in. They are meant to run and run, and for us to walk beside, and pick forget-me-nots."
Mrs. Stoddart"s scrutinizing eyes filled with sudden tears. What tragedy was this into which she had thrust herself? She drew back the curtain, and let the afternoon light fall on Annette"s face. Her eyelids trembled, and into her peaceful, rapt face distress crept slowly back.
Mrs. Stoddart felt as if she had committed a crime. But there was another to think of besides Annette.
"You have slept?"
"Yes. I ought not to have gone to sleep while d.i.c.k was ill."
"You needed sleep."
"Is--is he better?"
"He is somewhat better."
"I will go to him."
"He does not need you just now."
"Has the doctor found out what is the matter with him?"
"He thinks he has." Mrs. Stoddart spoke very slowly. "As far as I understand, there is a cerebral lesion, and it is possible that it may not be as serious as he thought at first. It may have been aggravated for the moment by drink, the effects of which are pa.s.sing off. But there is always the risk--in this case a great risk--that the injury to the brain may increase. In any case, his condition is very grave. His family ought to be communicated with at once."
Annette stared at her in silence.
"They _must_ be summoned," said Mrs. Stoddart.
"But I don"t know who they are," said Annette. "I don"t even know his real name. He is called Mr. Le Geyt. It is the name he rides under."
Mrs. Stoddart reddened. She had had her doubts.
"A wife should know her husband"s name," she said.
"But, you see, I"m not his wife."
There was a moment"s silence. Mrs. Stoddart"s eyes fell on Annette"s wedding ring.
"That is nothing," said Annette. "d.i.c.k said I had better have one, and he bought it in a shop before we started. I think I"ll take it off. I hate wearing it."
"No, no. Keep it on."
There was another silence.
"But you must know his address."
"No. I know he is often in Paris. But I have only met him at--at a cabaret."
"Could you trust me?" said Mrs. Stoddart humbly.
Annette trembled, and her face became convulsed.
"You are very kind," she said, "very kind,--getting the nurse, and helping, and this nice warm rug, and everything,--but I"m afraid I can"t trust anyone any more. I"ve left off trusting people."
CHAPTER IV
"Et je m"en vais Au vent mauvais Qui m"emporte Deca, dela, Pareille a la Feuille morte."
VERLAINE.
It was the second day of d.i.c.k"s illness. Annette"s life had revived somewhat, though the long sleep had not taken the strained look from her eyes. But Mrs. Stoddart"s fears for her were momentarily allayed. Tears were what she needed, and tears were evidently a long way off.
And Annette fought for the life of poor d.i.c.k as if he were indeed her bridegroom, and Mrs. Stoddart abetted her as if he were her only son.
The illness was incalculable, abnormal. There were intervals of lucidity followed by long lapses into unconsciousness. There were hours in which he seemed to know them, but could neither speak nor move. There were times when it appeared as if the faint flame of life had flickered quite out, only to waver feebly up again.
Together the two women had searched every article of d.i.c.k"s effects, but they could find no clue to his address or ident.i.ty. Annette remembered that he had had a pocket-book, and seeing him take a note out of it to pay for the tickets. But the pocket-book could not be found, or any money. It was evident that he had been robbed that first evening when he was drinking. Some of his handkerchiefs were marked with four initials, R. L. G. M.