Part 5 (1/2)

CHAPTER IV.

Six months wore themselves away; six months in every day of which John Chetwynd lived a year, measured by the anxiety and misery it held for him. He could no longer delude himself into the belief that Bella loved him, for all her actions went to prove the contrary. But her end just once gained, there were no more bickerings and disputes--she even condescended to consider her husband's wishes, when they did not clash or interfere with her own. But night after night he sat alone with the hateful consciousness that the woman who bore his name was parading her charms to d.i.c.k, Tom and Harry; in fact, to anybody who chose to pay his s.h.i.+lling for the privilege of contemplating them. It was in moments such as these that the iron entered his soul and there was no escape from it; he must bear his burden as many a better man had borne it before him. And thus it was he buried himself in his profession, working with a will and vigour that astonished no one so much as himself. He was rapidly becoming a popular man. Through sheer good luck (as he really believed it to be) he had diagnosed one or two cases with an ease and accuracy which not only filled his purse beyond his utmost expectations, but helped him up the ladder of fame at an amazing rate. But when emboldened by success, and always remembering the fact that however wilful and oblivious she might be, she was still to all intents and purposes the wife of his bosom and equally interested with himself in all his undertakings, he recounted his triumphs and declared his intention of leaving Camberwell forthwith and settling in Camelot Square, Bella smiled, yet proved in no way elated at the intelligence.

”So, my dear, you can go as soon as you like and fix upon a house,”

he said.

Bella yawned and stretched her arms above her head.

”Oh, you will know much better than I what is required,” she replied.

”Have you, then, no interest in our new home?” he asked, more hurt than he could well have expressed.

”Do you ever show the slightest interest in what concerns me?” she retorted.

He winced. ”This is a mutual interest, surely, since we must occupy it together.”

”Must?” she echoed dreamily.

”What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

”Nothing, except that 'must' is the word I have banished from my vocabulary,” and she smiled at him--actually smiled, though she must have known she was stabbing him to the very heart.

He said no more; and indeed, words seemed to be useless.

So he chose the house himself,--one that could not fail to please Bella, he felt exultantly. She would be less than woman if she were not glad to exchange the second-rate little dwelling in the Camberwell New Road for the substantial residence, with its modern improvements and embellishments in such a neighbourhood as Camelot Square.

It was not perhaps a palace, but it was a very great deal more imposing than anything they had dreamt of in the early days of their married life, and yet John Chetwynd told himself with a sigh that he would gladly give up fame and prosperity to win back the old love-light in his wife's eyes.

And there are some among us who cannot love for so little--”Of man's love a thing apart.” Perhaps John Chetwynd would have been a happier man had he been one of these.

Even the task of furnis.h.i.+ng fell to the doctor's lot. Bella did not refuse, nor did she object to accompany him on what he might have naturally supposed would be a congenial task for her, but she showed herself so indifferent throughout that, after an effort or two to make her contented, he gave it up, and it ended in his carrying the whole thing through himself.

And he was not sorry when at length it was completed. On the morrow he would bring Bella to her new home.

He stood under the bright lighted chandelier and looked round him.

The carpet was thick and soft. Bella liked carpets her feet could sink into, she had once said. There by the fireplace was the most luxurious easy chair he could purchase, upholstered in her favourite colour, pale blue. He pictured the dainty figure nestling in it, and a little glow stirred at his heart. After all, she was his wife, his fondly loved wife, and who could tell? Perhaps with the old life, old feuds would die out and with the new, joy and happiness dawn for them both once more.

John Chetwynd was not a religious man; he rarely went to church and he never prayed; but now he covered his face with his hands, and his lips moved inaudibly.

He was asking for a blessing on the new life, and there was something like a tear in his eye and a suspicious huskiness in his voice as he called out ”Come in” in answer to a hurried knock at the door and flung open the lid of a grand piano which was littered with music and songs, running his hands over the keys and smiling a little.

The piano was to be a surprise: Bella knew nothing about it.

Perhaps it would keep her more at home, for she was very fond of music.

It had cost more than he ought to have paid, but still it was for her.

”Come in, Mrs. Brewer--what is it? I'm just off. You will have us both here to-morrow at this time for good and all, I hope.”