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 But no sooner had her mother withdrawn than she rose from her bed and with deliberate purpose sat herself down in front of her mirror again.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 blushing.""Yes, for my own sake, too." "Chiefly for your own sake?" "No, Ido 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 glass, 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.
"I am going up to the Waring-Gaunts', Mother. They might need me,"she said in a voice of such serene control that her mother only answered, "Yes, dear, Larry will go with you. He will soon be in.""There is no need, Mother, I am not afraid."
Her mother made no answer but came to her and with a display of tenderness unusual between them put her arms about her and kissed her. "Good-night, then, darling; I am sure you will do them good."The night was gusty and black, but Kathleen had no fear. The road was known to her, and under the impulse of the purpose that possessed her she made nothing of the darkness nor of the approaching storm. She hurried down the lane toward the main trail, refusing to discuss with herself the possible consequence of what she was doing. Nor did she know just what situation she might find at the Waring-Gaunts'. They would doubtless be surprised to see her. They might not need her help at all. She might be going upon a fool's errand, but all these suppositions and forebodings she brushed aside. She was bent upon an errand of ****** kindness and help. If she found she was not needed she could return home and no harm done.
Receiving no response to her knock, she went quietly into the living room. A lamp burned low upon the table. There was no one to be seen. Upstairs a child was wailing and the mother's voice could be heard soothing the little one to sleep. From a bedroom, of which the door stood open, a voice called. The girl's heart stood still. It was Jack's voice, and he was calling for his sister. She ran upstairs to the children's room.
"He is calling for you," she said to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt without preliminary greeting. "Let me take Doris."But Doris set up a wail of such acute dismay that the distracted mother said, "Could you just step in and see what is wanted? Jack has been in bed for two days. We have been unable to get a nurse anywhere, and tonight both little girls are ill. I am so thankful you came over. Indeed, I was about to send for one of you. Just run down and see what Jack wants. I hope you don't mind. I shall be down presently when Doris goes to sleep.""I am not going to sleep, Mamma," answered Doris emphatically. "Iam going to keep awake, for if I go to sleep I know you will go away.""All right, darling, Mother is going to stay with you," and she took the little one in her arms, adding, "Now we are all right, aren't we."Kathleen ran downstairs, turned up the light in the living room and passed quietly into the bedroom.
"Sorry to trouble you, Sybil, but there's something wrong with this infernal bandage."Kathleen went and brought in the lamp. "Your sister cannot leave Doris, Mr. Romayne," she said quietly. "Perhaps I can be of use."For a few moments the sick man gazed at her as at a vision. "Is this another of them?" he said wearily. "I have been having hallucinations of various sorts for the last two days, but you do look real. It is you, Kathleen, isn't it?""Really me, Mr. Romayne," said the girl cheerfully. "Let me look at your arm.""Oh, hang it, say 'Jack,' won't you, and be decent to a fellow. My God, I have wanted you for these ten days. Why didn't you come to me? What did I do? I hurt you somehow, but you know I wouldn't willingly. Why have you stayed away from me?" He raised himself upon his elbow, his voice was high, thin, weak, his eyes glittering, his cheeks ghastly with the high lights of fever upon them.
