It seemed to Desire, waiting in the garden, that the Sergeant was taking an unnecessarily long time in telling his story. She had thought it best that he should be left alone to tell it, so the doctor had gone on to visit another patient, promising to call for her as he came back.
Desire waited. And, as she waited, she thought. And, as she thought, she questioned. What had Benis meant when he had said, in that whimsical way of his, "Well, my dear, it is your idea"? If he had not approved of it, why hadn't he said so? It had seemed such a sensible idea. An idea of which anyone might approve.... Why also had Sergeant Timms been so reluctant to approach Miss Martin with the bare (and, Desire thought, beautiful) truth? Because he feared it would rob her of an illusion? But illusions are surely something which people are better without?—aren't they?
The Sergeant came at last, twirling his cap and looking hot.
"Well?" asked Desire nervously.
"She'd like you to go in, Mrs. Spence, if you can spare the time. She took it quite quiet. 'Thank you, Sergeant,' says she. And never a question."
The two looked at each other and Desire saw her own doubt plainly reflected upon the honest gaze of Robert Timms.
"I'll go in," she said. "The doctor will take me home."
In the invalid's room there was only quietness. Miss Martin sat in her chair by the window; her plain, thin face had not sought to turn from the searching light. Desire felt her heart begin to beat with the beginnings of an understanding as new as it was revealing.
"Don't be sorry," Miss Martin's reassurance was instant. "I am glad to know.... I always did know, anyway ... and it did not make any difference ... If you can understand."
Desire nodded. "He must have been very wonderful," she said. In that new and nameless understanding she forgot that only that morning she had referred to the dead musician as a "derelict" and "no good for anything."
"Yes," said the invalid musing. "Not quite like the rest of us. And I see now that he never would have been. I used to think—but the difference was too deep. It was fundamental.... I feel ... as if he knew it ... and just wandered on."
"But you?" Desire ventured this almost timidly. The quietness seemed to intensify in the room. Then the invalid's voice, serene, distant.
"I? ... There is no hurry.... He has his fiddle, you see...." Miss Martin smiled and the smile held no bitterness. So might a mother have smiled over a thoughtless child who turns away from a love he is too young to value.
Desire was silent.
"I did not know love was like that," she said after a long pause. "But perhaps I do not know anything about love at all."
The older woman looked at her with quiet scrutiny.
"You will," she said.
After that they talked of other things until the doctor came to take Desire home.
"Queer thing," he said as he threw in the clutch, "I believe she looks a little better already. That was an excellent idea of yours."
"It was anything but an excellent idea." Desire's tone was taut with emotional reaction. "Fortunately, it did no harm. But I don't know what you were thinking of to allow it."
"Allow it?" In surprised injury.
Desire did not take up the challenge. She was looking, he thought, unusually excited. There was faint color on her cheek. Her hands, generally so quiet, clasped and unclasped her handbag with an irritating click. Being a wise man, Rogers waited until the clicking had subsided. Then, "What's the matter?" he asked mildly.
"John," said Desire, "do you know anything about love?"
"I see you do," she added as the car leapt forward, narrowly missing a surprised cow. "So perhaps you will laugh at my new wisdom. I learned something to-day."
The car was giving trouble. For a few moments its eccentricities required its driver's undivided attention. Even when it was running smoothly again, he appeared preoccupied. But Desire was seldom in a hurry. She waited until he was quite ready.
"You learned something—about love?" asked John gruffly.
"Yes. Have you a sore throat? Your voice sounds all dusty. I used to think," she went on dreamily, "that love was something that came from outside. That it depended on things. But it doesn't depend on anything and it's not outside at all."
"And you found this out, today?"
"Yes. I saw it, in Miss Martin. It was quite plain. What idiots we were to pity her!"
"Did we pity her?"
The question was mechanical. John was not thinking of Miss Martin. He was thinking of the faint rose upon Desire's half-turned cheek. Desire blushing!
"Of course we did. And we had no right. And there is no need."
"Don't let's do it, then," said John. Out of the corner of his eye he saw, with a quickening of his pulse, how stirred she was. And his wonder mounted. That Desire, of the cool, grey eyes and unwarmed smile, should speak of love at all was sufficiently amazing, but that she should speak of it with tinted cheek was a miracle.
Yet this, he quickly remembered, was something which he had himself foreseen. He had never really accepted Spence's theory that early disillusion had seriously poisoned the lifesprings natural to her age. Her awakening had been certain. He had warned Spence that she would wake! He felt all the exultation of a prophet who sees his prophecy fulfilled. But common sense urged caution. To frighten her now might be fatal. He tried to bring his mind back to Miss Martin.
"At least," he said, "our intentions were admirable. We were trying to help her."
"We were being very impertinent," affirmed Desire. "Benis told me so this morning."
"Benis told you?" in surprise.
"Well, he didn't exactly tell me. But I am sure he wanted to."
This was too subtle for the doctor. There were times when he frankly admitted his inability to bridge Desire's conversational chasms. He was often puzzled by the things she did not say.
"What was Benis thinking of," he said irritably, "to let you come out in that bread cart?"
Desire laughed. "I hope he was thinking of the Significance of the Totem. But I'm almost sure he wasn't."
"Does he ever think of anything but that blessed book of his?"
"I'm afraid he does—occasionally."
"You mean," with sharpened interest, "that he isn't quite as keen on it as he used to be?"
"I mean that he doesn't like me to work too hard."
"Oh, I see. Perhaps he does not wish you to work too hard for me, either?"
Desire folded her hands upon her bag and looked primly into space.
"He is a very considerate employer," she remarked mildly. "Take care—you nearly hit that hen!"
"Oh, d—bother the hen!"
"And he never swears," added Desire with gentle dignity.
They drove for a mile or so without remark and then, Desire, who had something to say, reopened the conversation without rancour.
"Don't be cross," she said. "As a matter of fact Benis does swear sometimes. He is nervous, you know. I sometimes wonder if it is all due to shell shock, or whether it is a result of his—er—other experience."
For the second time that day the car skidded. And for the second time, its unfortunate driver was called upon to give it his whole attention. Desire waited.
"I mean his former love affair," said she when conversation was again possible.
"His—I don't know," said John weakly.
Desire looked sceptical.
"Don't fancy I want to question you," she said with haughtiness. "But I don't see how you can help knowing. You are his doctor. And his friend, too. He must have told you. Didn't he?"
"He mentioned something—er—that is to say—"
"Oh, don't hesitate! Don't fancy that I mind. I don't, of course. And I am not curious. Although any-one might be curious. I won't ask you questions. I am only mildly interested. It is entirely for his own good that I should like to know if she is quite as wonderful as he thinks. Is she, John?"
"I—I don't know," stammered the wretched John.
Desire nodded patiently.
"You mean you don't know how wonderful he thought her? But did you think her very wonderful, John?"
"No, I didn't"
"You thought her plain?"
"No, I—I didn't think of her at all."
"You mean that you found her insignificant?"
The doctor made a sound which Desire was pleased to interpret as assent.
"I'm not surprised," said she earnestly. "Because, from the description Benis gave, I felt sure he was exaggerating. Not that it makes any difference, because, if he thought she was like that, what she really was like didn't matter. That," with plaintive triumph, "is one of the things I learned today."
The doctor said nothing. It was the only thing which he felt it safe to say.
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