“Time and the weather run through the roughest day.” It may be doubted if Rose Otway knew that consoling old proverb, but with her time, even in the shape of a very few days, and perhaps, too, the weather, which was remarkably fine and mild for the time of year, soon wrought a wonderful change.

And as she sat by Jervis Blake’s bedside, on a bright, sunny day in late November, it seemed to her as if she had nothing left to wish for. The two nurses who attended on him so kindly and so skilfully told her that he was going on well—far better, in fact, than they could have expected. And though Sir Jacques Robey did not say much, she had no reason to suppose him other than satisfied. True, Jervis’s face looked strained and thin, and there was a cradle over his right foot, showing where the worst injury had been. But the wound in his shoulder was healing nicely, and once or twice he had spoken of when he would be able to go back; but now he had left off doing that, for he saw that it troubled her.

Yesterday something very pleasant had happened, and something which, to Jervis Blake himself, was quite unexpected. He had been Mentioned in Despatches, in connection with a little affair, as he described it, which had happened weeks ago, on the Aisne! One of the other two men concerned in it had received the Victoria Cross, and Rose was secretly rather hurt, as was also Lady Blake, that Jervis had not been equally honoured. But that thought did not occur to either his father or himself.

Just now Rose was enjoying half an hour of pleasant solitude with her lover, after what had been a trying morning for him. Sir Jacques Robey had asked down an old friend of his own, a surgeon too, to see Jervis, and they had spent quite a long time pulling the injured foot about.

Sir John Blake had also come down to spend the day at Witanbury. He had been able to get away for a few hours from his work at the War Office to tell his boy how very, very pleased he was at that mention in Sir John French’s Despatches. Indeed, all the morning telegraph boys had been bringing to “Robey’s” the congratulations of friends and even acquaintances.

Jervis was very tired now—tired because the two surgeons, skilful and careful though they were, had not been able to help hurting him quite a good bit. It was fortunate that Rose Otway, dearly as she loved him, knew little or nothing of pain. She had been sent away during that hour, right out of the house, to take a walk with Mr. Robey. She had been told quite plainly by Sir Jacques that they would rather she were not there while the examination was taking place. It was important that the house should be kept as far as possible absolutely quiet.

Jervis did not talk very much, but there was no need for him to do so. He and Rose would have plenty of time to say everything they wanted to one another, for Sir Jacques had told her, only yesterday night, that a very long time must go by before Jervis would be fit to go back. “Any injury to the foot,” he had said casually, “is bound to be a long and a ticklish business.” The words had given her a rush of joy of which she felt ashamed.

There came a knock at the door, and then the younger of Jervis’s nurses came quietly into the room. “They’re asking for you downstairs, Miss Otway,” she said quietly. “And I think that perhaps Mr. Blake might now get a little sleep. He’s had a rather tiring, exciting morning, you know. Perhaps you could come up and have tea with him about five o’clock? He’s sure to be awake by then.”

And then the young nurse did a rather odd thing. Instead of going on into the room and up to the bedside, she went out of the door for a moment, and Rose, during that moment, bent down and laid her soft cheek against Jervis’s face. “Good-bye, my darling Jervis. I shan’t be away long.” And then she straightened herself, and went out of the room.

Of course she was happy—happy, and with a heart at rest as it had not been for months and months. But still it would be a great comfort when Jervis was up. She hated to see him lying there, helpless, given over to ministrations other than her own.

As she went through the door, the nurse stopped her and said, “Would you go into Mr. Robey’s study, Miss Otway? I think Sir John Blake wants to see you before he goes back to town. Mr. Jenkinson has already gone; he had to be there for a consultation at six.”

Rose looked at her, a little surprised. It was as if the kind little nurse was speaking for the sake of speaking.

She went down the quiet house, past the door of the large ward where the four other wounded officers now lay, all going on, she was glad to know, very well, and all having had a visit from Mr. Jenkinson, the London specialist.

She hurried on, smiling a little as she did so. She was no longer afraid of Sir John Blake. In fact she was becoming very fond of him, though it hurt her always to hear how sharply and irritably he spoke to his gentle, yielding wife. Of course Lady Blake was very unreasonable sometimes—but she was so helpless, so clinging, and so fond of Jervis.

And then, as she turned a corner—for “Robey’s” consisted of three houses, through each of which an intercommunication had been made—there fell on Rose Otway’s ear a very dreadful sound, that of some one crying in wild, unbridled grief. The sound came from Mrs. Robey’s little sitting-room, and suddenly Rose heard her own mother’s voice raised in expostulation. She was evidently trying to comfort and calm the poor stranger—doubtless the mother or wife of one of the four officers upstairs. Two days ago one of these visitors had had something very like a fit of hysterics after seeing her wounded husband. Rose shrank from the memory. But this was worse—far worse. She hurried on into Mr. Robey’s study.

The study, which was a very agreeable room, overlooked the Close. It was panelled with dark old oak, and lined on one side with books, and opposite the centre window hung Mr. Robey’s greatest treasure, a watercolour by Turner of Witanbury Cathedral, painted from the meadows behind the town.

To-day Mr. Robey himself was not there, but his brother and Sir John Blake were both waiting for her. Eagerly she walked forward into the room, and as she did so she made a delightful picture—or so those two men, so very different the one from the other, thought—of youth, of happiness, and yes, of young love satisfied.

Sir Jacques took a step forward. The General did not move at all. He was standing with his back to the further window, his face in shadow.

“Now, Miss Rose, I want you to listen very carefully to me for a few minutes.”

She looked at him gravely. “Yes?” she said questioningly.

“I have asked you to come,” went on the great surgeon, “because I want to impress upon your mind the fact that how you behave at this juncture of his life may make a very great, I might almost say all the difference, to your future husband, to Mr. Jervis Blake.”

Rose’s senses started up, like sentinels, to attention.

“You will have need of all your courage, and also of all your good sense, to help him along a very rough bit of road,” he went on feelingly.

Rose felt a thrill of sudden, unreasonable terror. “What is it?” she exclaimed. “What is going to happen to him? Is he going to die? I don’t mind what it is, if only you will tell me!” She instinctively moved over to Sir John Blake’s side, and he, as instinctively, put his arm round her shoulder.

“Mr. Jenkinson agrees with me,” said Sir Jacques, slowly and deliberately, “that his foot, the foot that was crushed, will have to come off. There is no danger—no reasonable danger, that is—of the operation costing him his life.” He waited a moment, and as she said nothing, he went on: “But though there is no danger of his losing his life, there is a very great danger, Miss Otway, of his losing what to such a man as Jervis Blake counts, I think, for more than life—his courage. By that of course I do not mean physical bravery, but that courage, or strength of mind, which enables many men far more afflicted than he will ever be, to retain their normal outlook on life.” Speaking more to himself, he added, “I have formed a very good opinion of this young man, and personally I think he will accept this great misfortune with resignation and fortitude. But one can never tell, and it is always best to prepare for the worst.”

And then, for the first time, Rose spoke. “I understand what you mean,” she said quietly. “And I thank you very much, Sir Jacques, for having spoken to me as you have done.”

“And now,” he said, “one word more. Sir John Blake does not know what I am going to say, and perhaps my suggestion will not meet with his approval. It had been settled during the last few days, had it not, that you and Jervis were to be married before he went back to the Front? Well, I suggest that you be married now, before the operation takes place. I am of course thinking of the matter solely from his point of view—and from my point of view as his surgeon.”

Her heartfelt “Thank you” had hardly reached his ear before Sir John Blake spoke with a kind of harsh directness.

“I don’t think anything of the sort can be thought of now. In fact I would not give my consent to an immediate marriage. I feel certain that my son, too, would refuse to take advantage of his position to suggest it.”

“I think,” said Sir Jacques quietly, “that the suggestion in any case would have to come from Miss Rose.”

And then, for the first time, Rose lost control of herself. She became agitated, tearful—in her eagerness she put her hand on Sir John’s breast, and looking piteously up into his face, “Of course I want to marry him at once!” she said brokenly. “Every time I have had to leave him in the last few days I have felt miserable. You see, I feel married to him already, and if you feel married, it’s so very strange not to be married.”

She began to laugh helplessly, and the more, shocked at what she was doing, she tried to stop, the more she laughed.

Sir Jacques came quickly forward. “Come, come!” he said sharply, and taking her by the arm he shook her violently. “This won’t do at all——” he gave a warning look at the other man. “Of course Miss Rose will do exactly what she wishes to do! She’s quite right in saying that she’s as good as married to him already, Sir John. And it’s our business—yours, hers, and mine—to think of Jervis, and of Jervis only just now. But she won’t be able to do that if she allows herself to be upset!”

“I’m so sorry—please forgive me!” Rose, to her own measureless relief, had stopped laughing, but she felt oddly faint and queer. Sir Jacques poured out a very small wineglassful of brandy, and made her drink it. How odd to have a bottle of brandy here, in Mr. Robey’s study! Mr. Robey was a teetotaller.

“Would you like me to go up to Jervis now?” asked Sir John slowly.

Sir Jacques looked into the speaker’s face. It was generally a clear, healthy tan colour; now it had gone quite grey. “No,” he said. “Not now. If you will forgive me for making a suggestion, I should advise that you and Miss Rose take Lady Blake out somewhere for an hour’s walk. There’s nothing like open air and a high road for calming the nerves.”

“I would rather not see my wife just now,” muttered Sir John frowning.

But Sir Jacques answered sternly, “I’m afraid I must ask you to do so; and once you’ve got her out of doors for an hour, I’ll give her a sleeping draught. She’ll be all right to-morrow morning. I don’t want any tears round my patient.”

It was Rose Otway who led Sir John Blake by the hand down the passage. The dreadful sounds coming from Mrs. Robey’s sitting-room had died down a little, but they still pierced one listener’s heart.

“Do be kind to her,” whispered the girl. “Think what she must be going through. She was so happy about him this morning——”

“Yes, yes! You’re quite right,” he said hastily. “I’ve been a brute—I know that. I promise you to do my best. And Rose?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What that man said is right—quite right. What we’ve got to do now is to start the boy on the right way—nothing else matters.”

She nodded.

“You and I can do it.”

“Yes, I know we can—and will,” said Rose; and then she opened the door of Mrs. Robey’s sitting-room.

At the sight of her husband, Lady Blake’s sobs died down in long, convulsive sighs.

“Come, my dear,” he said, in rather cold, measured tones. “This will not do. You must try for our boy’s sake to pull yourself together. After all, it might have been much worse. He might have been killed.”

“I would much rather he had been killed,” she exclaimed vehemently. “Oh, John, you don’t know, you don’t understand, what this will mean to him!”

“Don’t I?” he asked. He set his teeth. And then, “You’re acting very wrongly!” he said sternly. “We’ve got to face this thing out. Remember what Sir Jacques said to you.” He waited a moment, then, in a gentler, kinder tone, “Rose and I are going out for a walk, and we want you to come too.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could do that.” She spoke uncertainly, and yet even he could see that she was startled, surprised, and yes, pleased.

“Oh, yes, you can!” Rose came forward with the poor lady’s hat and black lace cloak. Very gently, but with the husband’s strong arm gripping the wife’s rather tightly, they between them led her out of the front door into the Close.

“I think,” said Sir John mildly, “that you had better run back and get your hat, Rose.”

She left them, and Sir John Blake, letting go of his wife’s arm looked down into her poor blurred face for a moment. “That girl,” he said hoarsely, “sets us both an example, Janey.”

“That’s true,” she whispered, “But John?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you sometimes feel dreadfully jealous of her?”

“I? God bless my soul, no!” But a very sweet smile, a smile she had not seen shed on her for many, many years, lit up his face. “We’ll have to think more of one another, and less of the boy—eh, my dear?”

Lady Blake was too surprised to speak—and so, for once doing the wise thing, she remained silent.

Rose, hurrying out a moment later, saw that the open air had already done them both good.