He counted up the number of days
that would almost certainly be spoilt for them. He realised, with an odd
mixture of pleasure and annoyance, that, for the first time in his life,
he was so dependent upon another person that his happiness was in her
keeping. The days were completely wasted upon trifling, immaterial
things, for after three weeks of such intimacy and intensity all the
usual occupations were unbearably flat and beside the point. The least
intolerable occupation was to talk to St. John about Rachel's illness,
and to discuss every symptom and its meaning, and, when this subject was
exhausted, to discuss illness of all kinds, and what caused them, and
what cured them.
Twice every day he went in to sit with Rachel, and twice every day the
same thing happened. On going into her room, which was not very dark,
where the music was lying about as usual, and her books and letters, his
spirits rose instantly. When he saw her he felt completely reassured.
She did not look very ill. Sitting by her side he would tell her what
he had been doing, using his natural voice to speak to her, only a few
tones lower down than usual; but by the time he had sat there for five
minutes he was plunged into the deepest gloom. She was not the same;
he could not bring them back to their old relationship; but although he
knew that it was foolish he could not prevent himself from endeavouring
to bring her back, to make her remember, and when this failed he was in
despair.
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