Cicely ascended the white, shining steps of Dr. Pawley’s house, pulled a shining brass bell-knob, and then grasped a shining brass knocker. But she didn’t knock, because she remembered that her kind old friend was ill. The trim parlourmaid opened the door. Cicely’s eyes, with keener powers of observation, dwelt for an instant upon a large, spotless mob cap. No hair from that well-covered head would fall into Dr. Pawley’s soup. This shocking incident had taken place at Danecourt, in the historic dining-room. Lord Saltaire had almost succumbed, falling into what appeared to be a cataleptic trance from which he emerged to refuse fish.

“Good morning, Ellen. How is Dr. Pawley?”

“He’s in bed, miss. Won’t you come in out of the sun?”

Cicely followed her into the drawing-room, which seemed deliciously cool. The windows had been shut to keep out the heat. Through them Cicely could see the garden sloping upward to the temple. War had respected this sanctuary. It looked as it had always looked, meticulously ordered. And the drawing-room presented the same prim demeanour. Surely the parlourmaid was mistaken. In a minute the dear old bachelor would hasten in, full of sympathy and affection, taking both her hands in his, bending down, perhaps, to kiss her forehead, the customary salute when she was a child. To distract her, he would show her some “find,” a bit of glass or porcelain, upon which he would hold forth with whimsical enthusiasm.

Cicely sat down. She was in no hurry; she wanted full particulars.

“It’s his heart, miss.”

“You are frightening me, Ellen.”

“It’s much better, miss. It’s the old trouble come back. Me and cook said it would. With rest, he’ll be himself again. You see, miss, when trouble came to the Hall—and about that I ask you to accept my respectful sympathy——”

“Thank you, Ellen.”

“When trouble came to the Hall, it came to the village. We’ve had a lot of sickness. And the doctor single-handed ...”

“A number of our people employ Dr. Snitterfield.”

Ellen sniffed.

“Only them as has to, miss. Well, just a week ago, the master fainted as he was lacing of his boots. But he went about his work just the same. He fainted again when he was taking them off. For an hour, miss, he sat huddled-up like in his chair, white as death and shivering. I gave him brandy and put hot bottles to his feet. His orders, miss. I had to help put him to bed.”

“I’m sure you did everything you could.”

“Yes, miss, with the tears streaming down my face. That night me and cook looked out our black.”

“But, heavens! surely you sent for a doctor?”

“Yes, miss. Not—Dr. Snitterfield. I sent a telegram to Mr. Grimshaw.”

“Mr. Grimshaw?” The name literally smote her. “But he’s in France.”

“Oh, no, miss. Mr. Grimshaw is ill too.”

Pelion piled upon Ossa!

“What next?” gasped Cicely.

“Mr. Grimshaw ain’t confined to his bed, miss. It seems he got invalided home with malaria or trench fever, something or other that jumps on and off.”

“Yes, yes; please go on. You wired for Mr. Grimshaw, and he couldn’t come?”

“Bless you, miss, he ain’t like that. He came by the next train from London. The master brightened up the instant minute he saw him. And Mr. Grimshaw had his own way with him, you may be sure. And, of course, he took on Dr. Pawley’s other cases. He’s in the dispensary now. I daresay, miss, you’d like to see Mr. Grimshaw?”

Cicely could have shrieked at her: “Not for the world!” Grimshaw’s presence in the house, the fact that he was within forty feet of her, that he was ill, that his fine work in France had been cut short, probably ended ... these accumulative surprises simply ravaged her. She wanted to bolt out of the house, to hide herself in the bracken, to think, think, think, till order evolved itself out of chaos.

Instead, she said faintly:

“Of course I will see Mr. Grimshaw. Please tell him that I am here.”

“Very good, miss.”

Ellen swept out. She had a nose—what servant has not?—for a situation. Something in Cicely’s face had stimulated curiosity. As she hurried to the dispensary, detached from the house, she wondered vaguely whether there had been “carryings-on” between Miss Chandos and Mr. Grimshaw. Quite likely, she decided.

Cicely rose from her chair and stared at herself in a sun-burst mirror above the mantelpiece. She bit her lips and slapped her cheeks, miserably conscious that such actions were humiliating and condemnatory. Why was she pale and trembling?

Fortunately for her—or perhaps the gods took pity—Grimshaw was preparing a tincture that exacted time and attention. Several minutes elapsed before he entered the room. Cicely, meanwhile, had recovered her self-possession.

“I am so glad to see you,” she said.

Sapphira might have envied her!

Nevertheless, the first glance at Grimshaw’s face was devastating. He was thin and haggard; he had lost weight; he had lost entirely the bloom of youth. Contrasting him with Wilverley, he seemed to be all angles and irregularities. The bones of his face had become sharply prominent.

Grimshaw spoke nervously but incisively:

“You can guess, Miss Chandos, that I cannot say what I feel. Your brother has made the supreme sacrifice. My sympathy is for you, not for him. There are moments when I envy him. I have seen the best go joyously, as if it were, as perhaps it is, the last and greatest adventure ...” He changed his tone, adopting the professional note: “Pray don’t alarm yourself about Dr. Pawley. The trouble has been acute; I cannot disguise from you that it is organic. He is perfectly aware of this. It means, to speak frankly, that his working life is over. There is no reason why he shouldn’t enjoy many years of leisure.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope to get him downstairs in a day or two. It will do him good to see his friends. I need hardly add that he has accepted the situation with courage and common sense.”

A slight pause followed. Cicely said quietly:

“Can you tell me something about yourself?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders.

“A month ago I was given my walking-papers. A nasty jolt! No man living, as yet, can lay his finger upon the bacillus that expects me to furnish him and his family with board and lodging. He is, I believe, a tropical beast. Anyhow, I have him in hand. He is less obstreperous. Ultimately, he and his brood will perish. The English climate will wipe him out.”

“Ought you to be working here?”

“Oh, yes. The reasonable exercise of my profession does me good. In France, when a convoy of wounded came in, we had to stick it till the last case. Here I can cosset myself.”

“You ... you are thinking of staying on?”

“Yes. That is understood between Dr. Pawley and me. He urged it. And I have paid a premium which now I can’t afford to forfeit.” Suddenly, his voice brightened, he seemed to speak naturally, sincerely:

“You remember you promised to work with me?” She nodded. “I am looking forward to that. We shan’t be idle.” He laughed, as he added: “I hear from Mrs. Rockram that you are an experienced nurse.”

“A bottlewasher. Still ... I learnt a lot at Wilverley.”

“How is Lady Selina?”

Without thinking, Cicely answered:

“Mother is wonderful. She is almost herself again. Poor dear! she will be terribly upset when she hears about more sickness in Upworthy.”

Grimshaw, rather astonished at her light manner, said quietly:

“I feared that Brian’s death would overwhelm her.”

“It did, it did. But ...”

“Yes?”

She flushed. The truth must be told; and a desperate desire possessed her to tell it, to put it behind her, to face this man bravely and secure him as a friend. He would be hurt if she went away, leaving him to hear the story from another. She assured herself that he had never cared.

“Yesterday, Mr. Grimshaw, Lord Wilverley asked me to become his wife.”

“Ah!”

The sharp exclamation escaped him. Instantly she knew. As instantly he recovered himself. But telepathy had been established. He did care! He had always cared. Intuition revealed everything. Fate had ordained that they should meet just twenty-four hours too late.

“I accepted him,” she continued calmly, wondering at her power of dissimulation. “And that has consoled Mother tremendously. This morning she is another woman.”

“I wish you all happiness, Miss Chandos.” His voice was as calm as hers. “From the little I saw of Lord Wilverley, I can congratulate you with all my heart; and him.”

She walked back to the Manor with slow, reluctant steps. The brook that flows between maidenhood and womanhood had been passed.