The Major [83]
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, rubbish!" 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, impassive 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 passionate 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, passionate words uttered during the moments of his physical suffering that seemed to mean something more than friendliness. Against these, however,
"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, rubbish!" 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, impassive 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 passionate 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, passionate words uttered during the moments of his physical suffering that seemed to mean something more than friendliness. Against these, however,