“Unwell, Mr. Philip, sir?” he said.
“May I suggest a mustard bath, and a hot grog?
It comes of riding out in such weather.”
“Nothing, thank you, Seecombe,” I replied.
“I’m a little tired, that’s all.”
“No dinner, Mr. Philip?
We have venison, and apple pie.
It is all ready to serve.
Both the ladies are in the drawing room now.”
“No, Seecombe.
I slept badly last night.
I shall be better in the morning.”
“I will tell the mistress,” he said, “she will be much concerned.”
At least by remaining in my room it might give me a chance to see Rachel alone.
After dinner, perhaps, she would come up and inquire about me.
I undressed and got into my bed.
Undoubtedly I must have caught some sort of chill.
The sheets seemed bitter cold, and I threw them off and got between the blankets.
I felt stiff and numb and my head throbbed, things most unusual and unknown.
I lay there, waiting for them to finish dinner.
I heard them pass from the hall into the dining room, the chatter ceaseless—I was spared that, at any rate—and then, after a long interval, back again to the drawing room.
Some time after eight o’clock I heard them come upstairs.
I sat up in bed and put my jacket round my shoulders.
This, perhaps, was the moment she would choose.
In spite of the rough blankets I was still cold, and the stiff pain that was about my legs and neck shifted in full measure to my head, so that it seemed on fire.
I waited, but she did not come.
They must be sitting in the boudoir.
I heard the clock strike nine, then ten, then eleven.
After eleven, I knew that she did not intend to come and see me that night at all.
Ignoring me, then, was but a continuation of my punishment.
I got out of bed and stood in the passage.
They had retired for the night, for I could hear Mary Pascoe moving about in the pink bedroom, and now and then an irritating little cough to clear her throat—another habit she had taken from her mother.
I went along the corridor to Rachel’s room.
I put my hand upon the handle of the door, and turned it.
But it did not open.
The door was locked.
I knocked, very softly.
She did not answer.
I went slowly back to my own room and to my bed, and lay there, icy cold.
I remember in the morning that I dressed, but I have no recollection of John coming in to call me, nor that I breakfasted, nor of anything at all, but only the strange stiffness in my neck and the agonizing pain in my head.
I went and sat on my chair in the office.
I wrote no letters, I saw no one.
Some time after midday Seecombe came to find me to tell me that the ladies were awaiting luncheon.
I said I wanted none.
He came near to me and looked into my face.
“Mr. Philip,” he said, “you are ill.
What is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
He took my hand and felt it.
He went out of the office and I heard him hurry across the courtyard.