Day after day, night after night, as long as we both should live.
That much I remembered from the prayer book.
I shut my eyes, and she was with me still; and then I must have slept upon the instant, because when I woke the sun was streaming into the open window, and John had come in and laid out my clothes upon the chair and brought me my hot water and gone again, and I had not heard him.
I shaved and dressed and went down to my breakfast, which was now cold upon the sideboard—Seecombe thinking I had long descended—but hard-boiled eggs and ham made easy fare.
I could have eaten anything that day.
Afterwards I whistled to the dogs and went out into the grounds, and, caring nothing for Tamlyn and his cherished blooms, I picked every budding camellia I set eyes upon and laid them in the carrier, the same that had done duty for the jewels the day before, and went back into the house and up the stairs and along the corridor to her room.
She was sitting up in bed, eating her breakfast, and before she had time to call out in protest and draw her curtains, I had showered the camellias down upon the sheets and covered her.
“Good morning once again,” I said, “and I would remind you that it is still my birthday.”
“Birthday or not,” she said, “it is customary to knock upon a door before you enter.
Go away.”
Dignity was difficult, with the camellias in her hair, and on her shoulders, and falling into the teacup and the bread-and-butter, but I straightened my face and withdrew to the end of the room.
“I am sorry,” I said.
“Since entering by window I have grown casual about doors.
In fact, my manners have forsaken me.”
“You had better go,” she said, “before Seecombe comes up to take my tray.
I think he would be shocked to see you here, for all your birthday.”
Her cool voice was a damper to my spirits, but I supposed there was logic in her remark.
It was a trifle bold, perhaps, to burst in on a woman at her breakfast, even if she was to be my wife—which was something that Seecombe did not know as yet.
“I will go,” I said.
“Forgive me.
I only want to say one thing to you.
I love you.”
I turned to the door and went, and I remember noticing that she no longer wore the collar of pearls.
She must have taken it off after I left her in the early morning, and the jewels were not lying on the floor, all had been tidied away.
But on the breakfast tray, beside her, was the document that I had signed the day before.
Downstairs Seecombe awaited me, a package in his hand bound up in paper.
“Mr. Philip, sir,” he said, “this is a very great occasion.
May I take the liberty of wishing you many, many happy returns of your birthday?”
“You may, Seecombe,” I answered, “and thank you.”
“This, sir,” he said, “is only a trifle. A small memento of many years of devoted service to the family.
I hope you will not be offended, and that I have not taken any liberty in assuming you might be pleased to accept it as a gift.”
I unwrapped the paper and the visage of Seecombe himself, in profile, was before me; unflattering perhaps, but unmistakable.
“This,” I said gravely, “is very fine indeed. So fine, in fact, that it shall hang in place of honor near the stairs.
Bring me a hammer and a nail.”
He pulled the bell, with dignity, for John to do his errand.
Between us we fixed the portrait upon the panel outside the dining room.
“Do you consider, sir,” said Seecombe, “that the likeness does me justice?
Or has the artist given something of harshness to the features, especially the nose?
I am not altogether satisfied.”
“Perfection in a portrait is impossible, Seecombe,” I answered.
“This is as near to it as we shall get.
Speaking for myself, I could not be more delighted.”
“Then that is all that matters,” he replied.
I wanted to tell him there and then that Rachel and I were to be married, I was so bursting with delight and happiness, but a certain hesitation held me back; the matter was too solemn and too delicate to thrust upon him unawares, and maybe we should tell him together.
I went round the back to the office, in pretense of work, but all I did when I got there was to sit before my desk and stare in front of me.
I kept seeing her, in my mind’s eye, propped up against the pillows, eating her breakfast, with the camellia buds scattered on the tray.
The peace of early morning had gone from me, and all the fever of last night was with me once again.
When we were married, I mused, tilting back my chair and biting the end of my pen, she would not dismiss me from her presence with such ease.
I would breakfast with her.
No more descending to the dining room alone.