Part 13 (2/2)
Two days later he made another and rather disconcerting discovery, which set him wondering afresh as to the real nature of the woman who, like himself, had been the victim of a strangely vindictive fate.
The day was Sunday, and Cherry had been permitted the indulgence of breakfast in bed; so that Anstice interviewed his young patient in her own pink-and-white nest, where, attended by the faithful Tochatti, she gave herself innumerable airs and graces, but finally allowed him to examine her small arm, which was now practically healed.
”Mrs. Carstairs not up yet?” It was ten o'clock--but there was no sign of Cherry's mother.
”Yes, sir.” Tochatti spoke slowly, her foreign accent more strongly marked than usual. ”My mistress has a slight headache and is in her own room. She would like to see you before you go.”
Accordingly, after a prolonged parting from Cherry, who shamelessly importuned him to neglect his other and less important patients, Anstice accompanied Tochatti to Mrs. Carstairs' sitting-room where its owner presumably awaited him.
The room itself was in its way as uncommon as its occupant, being furnished entirely in black and white. The walls were white, the carpet black. The chairs and couches were upholstered in black-and-white chintz, with a profusion of cus.h.i.+ons of both hues, and the pictures on the white walls were etchings in black oak frames. On the mantelpiece was a collection of carved ivory toys of all kinds, with here and there an ebony elephant from Ceylon or a.s.sam. The paint on doors and windows was black, yet in spite of the sombreness of the general scheme there was nothing depressing, nothing sinister in the finished effect.
Possibly because Chloe Carstairs was an artist--or a wise woman who knew the value of relief--one note of colour was struck in the presence of a huge china bowl filled with tulips of every conceivable shade of flame and orange and yellow and red; but with that exception black and white predominated, and when Chloe Carstairs rose from her low chair near the window and advanced towards him, she, too, carried out the subtle suggestion of the whole room.
Dressed in white, her silky black hair and blue eyes the only bits of colour about her, she looked paler than usual, and Anstice jumped to the conclusion she had sent for him to prescribe for her.
”Good morning, Dr. Anstice.” Anstice, who hated shaking hands with most people, always liked her firm, cool handshake. ”How is Cherry? You find her better?”
”Yes, she is really quite herself again, and her arm has healed most satisfactorily.” He stood in front of her as he spoke, and studied her face carefully. ”But you don't look very fit, Mrs. Carstairs. Can I do anything for you now that your little daughter has finished with me?”
She looked at him with a smile which was more melancholy than usual.
”I think not,” she said slowly. ”You see, I am not ill, only a little tired--tired with remembering days that are gone.”
”Isn't that rather a fatal thing to do?” His own bitter memories gave him the clue to her state of mind. ”No good ever comes of remembering sad things. I think the perfect memory would be one which would only retain the happiness of life. You know the old motto found on many sundials: 'I only record sunny hours.'”
”I don't agree with you,” she said quietly. ”It's the shadows which give value to the high lights, isn't it? And sometimes to remember dreadful things is a happiness in itself, knowing they are gone for ever. I can quite well bear to remember that horrible prison”--as always when speaking of it, her lips whitened--”because no power on earth can ever put me back there again.”
”I don't think it can do you any good to dwell on such memories,” he persisted. ”If you are wise you will forget them. No wonder your head aches if you dwell on such unpleasant things.”
She looked at him more fully, and in her eyes he read something which baffled him.
”You are quite right--and delightfully sane and sensible,” she said.
”But as a matter of fact, I wasn't really thinking of the prison to-day.
You see, this is the anniversary of my wedding day, and my thoughts were not altogether sad ones.”
He looked at her, nonplussed for the moment, and suddenly Chloe's face softened.
”Dr. Anstice, forgive me. The fact is, I had a bad night, and am all on edge this morning.”
”Why do you sit in here?” asked Anstice abruptly. ”It is a lovely morning--the sun is warm and there's no wind. Why not go out into your charming garden? Lie in a low chair and sleep--or read some amusing book. Is this a particularly engrossing one?”
He picked up the volume she had laid down at his entrance, and she watched him with a faint hint of mockery in her blue eyes. His face changed as he read the t.i.tle.
”De Quincey's _Confessions_! Mrs. Carstairs, you're not interested in this sort of thing?”
”Why not?” Her manner was ever so slightly antagonistic. ”The subject is a fascinating one, isn't it? I confess I've often felt inclined to try opium--morphia or something of the sort, myself.”
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