By working to the foot of the bed she could see herself in the glass of the wardrobe. And she saw that the lower part of her face was twisted out of shape.
The doctor, who knew her, and who earned a lot of money in her house, told her frankly what had happened.
Paralysie glosso-labio- laryngee was the phrase he used.
She understood.
A very slight attack; due to overwork and worry.
He ordered absolute rest and quiet.
"Impossible!" she said, genuinely convinced that she alone was indispensable.
"Repose the most absolute!" he repeated.
She marvelled that a few words with a man who chanced to be named Peel-Swynnerton could have resulted in such a disaster, and drew a curious satisfaction from this fearful proof that she was so highly-strung.
But even then she did not realize how profoundly she had been disturbed.
V
"My darling Sophia--"
The inevitable miracle had occurred.
Her suspicions concerning that Mr. Peel-Swynnerton were well-founded, after all!
Here was a letter from Constance!
The writing on the envelope was not Constance's; but even before examining it she had had a peculiar qualm.
She received letters from England nearly every day asking about rooms and prices (and on many of them she had to pay threepence excess postage, because the writers carelessly or carefully forgot that a penny stamp was not sufficient); there was nothing to distinguish this envelope, and yet her first glance at it had startled her; and when, deciphering the smudged post-mark, she made out the word
'Bursley,' her heart did literally seem to stop, and she opened the letter in quite violent tremulation, thinking to herself:
"The doctor would say this is very bad for me."
Six days had elapsed since her attack, and she was wonderfully better; the distortion of her face had almost disappeared.
But the doctor was grave; he ordered no medicine, merely a tonic; and monotonously insisted on 'repose the most absolute,' on perfect mental calm.
He said little else, allowing Sophia to judge from his silences the seriousness of her condition.
Yes, the receipt of such a letter must be bad for her!
She controlled herself while she read it, lying in her dressing- gown against several pillows on the bed; a mist did not form in her eyes, nor did she sob, nor betray physically that she was not reading an order for two rooms for a week.
But the expenditure of nervous force necessary to self-control was terrific.
Constance's handwriting had changed; it was, however, easily recognizable as a development of the neat calligraphy of the girl who could print window-tickets.
The 'S' of Sophia was formed in the same way as she had formed it in the last letter which she had received from her at Axe!
"MY DARLING SOPHIA,
"I cannot tell you how overjoyed I was to learn that after all these years you are alive and well, and doing so well too.
I long to see you, my dear sister.
It was Mr. Peel-Swynnerton who told me.
He is a friend of Cyril's.
Cyril is the name of my son.
I married Samuel in 1867.
Cyril was born in 1874 at Christmas.
He is now twenty-two, and doing very well in London as a student of sculpture, though so young.
He won a National Scholarship.
There were only eight, of which he won one, in all England.
Samuel died in 1888.
If you read the papers you must have seen about the Povey affair.
I mean of course Mr. Daniel Povey, Confectioner.
It was that that killed poor Samuel.
Poor mother died in 1875.
It doesn't seem so long.
Aunt Harriet and Aunt Maria are both dead.
Old Dr. Harrop is dead, and his son has practically retired.
He has a partner, a Scotchman.
Mr. Critchlow has married Miss Insull.
Did you ever hear of such a thing?
They have taken over the shop, and I live in the house part, the other being bricked up.