The Major Part 33

"Nora has gone home. You won't lie down a little? Then Tom shall take you in the car. You are perfectly splendid. I did not think you had it in you."

"Oh, don't, don't," cried the girl, a quick rush of tears coming to her eyes. "I must go, I must go. Oh, I feel terrible. I don't know what I have done. Let me go home." She almost pushed Mrs. Waring-Gaunt from her and went out of the house and found Tom standing by the car smoking.

"Take her home, Tom," said his wife. "She needs rest."

"Come along, Kathleen; rest--well, rather. Get in beside me here. Feel rather rotten, eh, what? Fine bit of work, good soldier--no, don't talk--monologue indicated." And monologue it was till he delivered her, pale, weary and spent, to her mother.

CHAPTER XIV

AN EXTRAORDINARY NURSE

"A letter for you, Nora," said Larry, coming just in from the post office.

"From Jane!" cried Nora, tearing open the letter. "Oh, glory," she continued. "They are coming. Let's see, written on the ninth, leaving to-morrow and arrive at Melville Station on the twelfth. Why, that's tomorrow."

"Who, Nora?" said Larry. "Jane?"

"Yes, Jane and her father. She says, 'We mean to stay two or three days, if you can have us, on our way to Banff.'"

"Hurrah! Good old Jane! What train did you say?" cried Larry.

"Sixteen-forty-five to-morrow at Melville Station."

"'We'll have one trunk and two boxes, so you will need some sort of rig, I am afraid. I hope this will not be too much trouble.'"

"Isn't that just like Jane?" said Larry. "I bet you she gives the size of the trunk, doesn't she, Nora?"

"A steamer trunk and pretty heavy, she says."

"Same old girl. Does she give you the colour?" inquired Larry. "Like an old maid, she is."

"Nonsense," said Nora, closing up her letter. "Oh, it's splendid. Let's see, it is eight years since we saw her."

"Just about fifteen months since I saw her," said Larry.

"And about four months for me," said Kathleen.

"But eight years for me," cried Nora, "and she has never missed writing me every week, except once when she had the mumps, and she made her father write that week. Now we shall have to take our old democrat to meet her, the awful old thing," said Nora in a tone of disgust.

"Jane won't mind if it is a hayrack," said Larry.

"No, but her father. He's such a swell. I hate meeting him with that old bone cart. But we can't help it. Oh, I am just nutty over her coming. I wonder what she's like?"

"Why, she's the same old Jane," said Larry. "That's one immense satisfaction about her. She is always the same, no matter when, how or where you meet her. There's never a change in Jane."

"I wonder if she has improved--got any prettier, I mean."

"Prettier! What the deuce are you talking about?" said Larry indignantly. "Prettier! Like a girl that is! You never think of looks when you see Jane. All you see is just Jane and her big blue eyes and her smile. Prettier! Who wants her prettier?"

"Oh, all right, Larry. Don't fuss. She IS plain-looking, you know. But she is such a good sort. I must tell Mrs. Waring-Gaunt."

"Do," said Larry, "and be sure to ask her for her car."

Nora made a face at him, but ran to the 'phone and in an ecstatic jumble of words conveyed the tremendous news to the lady at the other end of the wire and to all the ears that might be open along the party line.

"Is that Mrs. Waring-Gaunt?--it's Nora speaking. I have the most glorious news for you. Jane is coming!--You don't know Jane? My friend, you know, in Winnipeg. You must have often heard me speak of her.--What?--Brown.--No, Brown, B-r-o-w-n. And she's coming to-morrow.--No, her father is with her.--Yes, Dr. Brown of Winnipeg.--Oh, yes. Isn't it splendid?--Three days only, far too short.

And we meet her to-morrow.--I beg your pardon?--Sixteen-forty-five, she says, and she is always right. Oh, a change in the time table is there?--Yes, I will hold on.--Sixteen-forty-five, I might have known.--What do you say?--Oh, could you? Oh, dear Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, how perfectly splendid of you! But are you sure you can?--Oh, you are just lovely.--Yes, she has one trunk, but that can come in the democrat. Oh, that is perfectly lovely! Thank you so much. Good-bye.--What? Yes, oh, yes, certainly I must go.--Will there be room for him? I am sure he will love to go. That will make five, you know, and they have two bags. Oh, lovely; you are awfully good.--We shall need to start about fifteen o'clock. Good-bye. Oh, how is Mr. Romayne?--Oh, I am so sorry, it is too bad. But, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, you know Dr. Brown is a splendid doctor, the best in Winnipeg, one of the best in Canada. He will tell you exactly what to do.--I beg your pardon?--Yes, she's here. Kathleen, you are wanted. Hurry up, don't keep her waiting. Oh, isn't she a dear?"

"What does she want of me?" said Kathleen, a flush coming to her cheek.

"Come and see," said Nora, covering the transmitter with her hand, "and don't keep her waiting. What is the matter with you?"

Reluctantly Kathleen placed the receiver to her ear. "Yes, Mrs.

Waring-Gaunt, it is Kathleen speaking.--Yes, thank you, quite well.--Oh, I have been quite all right, a little shaken perhaps.--Yes, isn't it splendid? Nora is quite wild, you know. Jane is her dearest friend and she has not seen her since we were children, but they have kept up a most active correspondence. Of course, I saw a great deal of her last year. She is a splendid girl and they were so kind; their house was like a home to me. I am sure it is very kind of you to offer to meet them.--I beg your pardon?--Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. We thought he was doing so well. What brought that on?--Blood-poisoning!--Oh, Mrs.

Waring-Gaunt, you don't say so? How terrible! Isn't it good that Dr.

Brown is coming? He will know exactly what is wrong.--Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. Sleeplessness is so trying.--Yes--Yes--Oh, Mrs.

Waring-Gaunt, I am afraid I couldn't do that." Kathleen's face had flushed bright crimson. "But I am sure Mother would be so glad to go, and she is a perfectly wonderful nurse. She knows just what to do.--Oh, I am afraid not. Wait, please, a moment."

"What does she want?" asked Nora.

Kathleen covered the transmitter with her hand. "She wants me to go and sit with Mr. Romayne while she drives you to the station. I cannot, I cannot do that. Where is Mother? Oh, Mother, I cannot go to Mrs.

Waring-Gaunt's. I really cannot."

"What nonsense, Kathleen!" cried Nora impatiently. "Why can't you go, pray? Let me speak to her." She took the receiver from her sister's hand. "Yes, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, it is Nora.--I beg your pardon?--Oh, yes, certainly, one of us will be glad to go.--No, no, certainly not. I would not have Mr. Waring-Gaunt leave his work for the world.--I know, I know, awfully slow for him. We had not heard of the change. It is too bad.--Yes, surely one of us will be glad to come. We will fix it up some way. Good-bye."

Nora hung up the receiver and turned fiercely upon her sister. "Now, what nonsense is this," she said, "and she being so nice about the car, and that poor man suffering there, and we never even heard that he was worse? He was doing so splendidly, getting about all right.

Blood-poisoning is so awful. Why, you remember the Mills boy? He almost lost his arm."

"Oh, my dear Nora," said her mother. "There is no need of imagining such terrible things, but I am glad Dr. Brown is to be here. It is quite providential. I am sure he will put poor Mr. Romayne right. Kathleen, dear," continued the mother, turning to her elder daughter, "I think it would be very nice if you would run over to-morrow while Mrs.

Waring-Gaunt drives to the station. I am sure it is very kind of her."

"I know it is, Mother dear," said Kathleen. "But don't you think you would be so much better?"

"Oh, rubbis.h.!.+" cried Nora. "If it were not Jane that is coming, I would go myself; I would only be too glad to go. He is perfectly splendid, so patient, and so jolly too, and Kathleen, you ought to go."

"Nora, dear, we won't discuss it," said the mother in the tone that the family knew meant the end of all conversation. Kathleen hurried away from them and took refuge in her own room. Then shutting the door, she began pacing the floor, fighting once more the battle which during that last ten days she had often fought with herself and of which she was thoroughly weary. "Oh," she groaned, wringing her hands, "I cannot do it. I cannot look at him." She thought of that calm, impa.s.sive face which for the past three months this English gentleman had carried in all of his intercourse with her, and over against that reserve of his she contrasted her own pa.s.sionate abandonment of herself in that dreadful moment of self-revelation. The contrast caused her to writhe in an agony of self-loathing. She knew little of men, but instinctively she felt that in his sight she had cheapened herself and never could she bear to look at him again. She tried to recall those glances of his and those broken, pa.s.sionate words uttered during the moments of his physical suffering that seemed to mean something more than friendliness.

Against these, however, was the constantly recurring picture of a calm cold face and of intercourse marked with cool indifference. "Oh, he cannot love me," she cried to herself. "I am sure he does not love me, and I just threw myself at him." In her march up and down the room she paused before her mirror and looked at the face that stared so wildly back at her. Her eyes rested on the red line of her mouth. "Oh," she groaned, rubbing vigorously those full red lips. "I just kissed him."

She paused in the rubbing operation, gazed abstractedly into the gla.s.s; a tender glow drove the glare from her eyes, a delicious softness as from some inner well overflowed her countenance, the red blood surged up into her white face; she fled from her accusing mirror, buried her burning face in the pillow in an exultation of rapture. She dared not put into words the thoughts that rioted in her heart. "But I loved it, I loved it; I am glad I did." Lying there, she strove to recall in shameless abandon the sensation of those ecstatic moments, whispering in pa.s.sionate self-defiance, "I don't care what he thinks. I don't care if I was horrid. I am NOT sorry. Besides, he looked so dreadful." But she was too honest not to acknowledge to herself that not for pity's sake but for love's she had kissed him, and without even his invitation. Then once again she recalled the look in his eyes of surprise in the moment of his returning consciousness, and the little smile that played around his lips. Again wave upon wave of sickening self-loathing flooded from her soul every memory of the bliss of that supreme moment. Even now she could feel the bite of the cold, half humorous scorn in the eyes that had opened upon her as she withdrew her lips from his. On the back of this came another memory, sharp and stabbing, that this man was ill, perhaps terribly ill. "We are a little anxious about him," his sister had said, and she had mentioned the word "blood-poisoning." Of the full meaning of that dread word Kathleen had little knowledge, but it held for her a horror of something unspeakably dangerous. He had been restless, sleepless, suffering for the last two days and two nights.

That very night and that very hour he was perhaps tossing in fever. An uncontrollable longing came over her to go to him. Perhaps she might give him a few hours' rest, might indeed help to give him the turn to health again. After all, what mattered her feelings. What difference if he should despise her, provided she brought him help in an hour of crisis. Physically weary with the long struggle through which she had been pa.s.sing during the last ten days, sick at heart, and torn with anxiety for the man she loved, she threw herself upon her bed and abandoned herself to a storm of tears. Her mother came announcing tea, but this she declined, pleading headache and a desire to sleep. But no sooner had her mother withdrawn than she rose from her bed and with deliberate purpose sat herself down in front of her mirror again. She would have this out with herself now. "Well, you are a beauty, sure enough," she said, addressing her swollen and disfigured countenance.

"Why can't you behave naturally? You are acting like a fool and you are not honest with yourself. Come now, tell the truth for a few minutes if you can. Do you want to go and see this man or not? Answer truly."

"Well, I do then." The blue eyes looked back defiantly at her. "Why? to help him? for his sake? Come, the truth." "Yes, for his sake, at least partly." "And for your own sake, too? Come now, none of that. Never mind the blus.h.i.+ng." "Yes, for my own sake, too." "Chiefly for your own sake?"

"No, I do not think so. Chiefly I wish to help him." "Then why not go?"

Ah, this is a poser. She looks herself fairly in the eye, distinctly puzzled. Why should she not simply go to him and help him through a bad hour? With searching, deliberate persistence she demanded an answer. She will have the truth out of herself. "Why not go to him if you so desire to help him?" "Because I am ashamed, because I have made myself cheap, and I cannot bear his eyes upon me. Because if I have made a mistake and he does not care for me--oh, then I never want to see him again, for he would pity me, and that I cannot bear." "What? Not even to bring him rest and relief from his pain? Not to help him in a critical hour? He has been asking for you, remember." Steadily they face each other, eye to eye, and all at once she is conscious that the struggle is over, and, looking at the face in the gla.s.s, she says, "Yes, I think I would be willing to do that for him, no matter how it would shame me." Another heart-searching pause, and the eyes answer her again, "I will go to-morrow." At once she reads a new peace in the face that gazes at her so weary and wan, and she knows that for the sake of the man she loves she is willing to endure even the shame of his pity. The battle was over and some sort of victory at least she had won. An eager impatience possessed her to go to him at once. "I wish it were to-morrow now, this very minute."

She rose and looked out into the night. There was neither moon nor stars and a storm was brewing, but she knew she could find her way in the dark. Quietly and with a great peace in her heart she bathed her swollen face, changed her dress to one fresh from the ironing board--pale blue it was with a dainty vine running through it--threw a wrap about her and went out to her mother.