Chapter Twenty three

It was a damp and depressing day on which Lord Walderhurst arrived in London.  As his carriage turned into Berkeley Square he sat in the corner of it rather huddled in his travelling-wraps and looking pale and thin.  He was wishing that London had chosen to show a more exhilarating countenance to him, but he himself was conscious of being possessed by something more nearly approaching a mood of eagerness than he remembered experiencing at any period of his previous existence.  He had found the voyage home long, and had been restless.  He wanted to see his wife.  How agreeable it would be to meet, when he looked across the dinner-table, the smile in her happy eyes.  She would grow pink with pleasure, like a girl, when he confessed that he had missed her.  He was curious to see in her the changes he had felt in her letters.  Having time and opportunities for development, she might become an absolutely delightful companion.  She had looked very handsome on the day of her presentation at Court.  Her height and carriage had made her even impressive.  She was a woman, after all, to be counted on in one’s plans.

But he was most conscious that his affection for her had warmed.  A slight embarrassment was commingled with the knowledge, but that was the natural result of his dislike to the sentimental.  He had never felt a shadow of sentiment for Audrey, who had been an extremely light, dry, empty-headed person, and he had always felt she had been adroitly thrust upon him by their united families.  He had not liked her, and she had not liked him.  It had been very stupidly trying.  And the child had not lived an hour.  He had liked Emily from the first, and now—­It was an absolute truth that he felt a slight movement in the cardiac region when the carriage turned into Berkeley Square.  The house would look very pleasant when he entered it.  Emily would in some subtle way have arranged that it should wear a festal, greeting air.  She had a number of nice, little feminine emotions about bright fires and many flowers.  He could picture her childlike grown-up face as it would look when he stepped into the room where they met.

Some one was ill in Berkeley Square, evidently very ill.  Straw was laid thick all along one side of it, depressing damp, fresh straw, over which the carriage rolled with a dull drag of the wheels.

It lay before the door of his own house, he observed, as he stepped out.  It was very thickly scattered.  The door swung open as the carriage stopped.  Crossing the threshold, he glanced at the face of the footman nearest to him.  The man looked like a mute at a funeral, and the expression was so little in accord with his mood that he stopped with a feeling of irritation.  He had not time to speak, however, before a new sensation arrested his attention,—­a faint odour which filled the place.

“The house smells like a hospital,” he exclaimed, in great annoyance.  “What does it mean?”