The Major

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Major


"Not you," declared Jack. "That sort of thing does not go with your
stock. God knows what would have happened to me if I had had a silly
fool with me, for the blood was pumping out all over me. But, thank God,
I had a woman with a brave heart and clever hands."

When the doctor came, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt went in to assist him, but when
the ghastly bloody spectacle lay bare to her eyes she found herself grow
weak and hurried to the kitchen where the others were.

"Oh, I am so silly," she said, "but I am afraid I cannot stand the sight
of it."

Kathleen sprang at once to her feet. "Is there no one there?" she
demanded with a touch of impatience in her voice, and passed quickly
into the room, where she stayed while the doctor snipped off the frayed
patches of skin and flesh and tied up the broken arteries, giving aid
with quick fingers and steady hands till all was over.

"You have done this sort of thing before, Miss Gwynne?" said the doctor.

"No, never," she replied.

"Well, you certainly are a brick," he said, turning admiring eyes upon
her. He was a young man and unmarried. "But this is a little too much
for you." From a decanter which stood on a side table he poured out a
little spirits. "Drink this," he said.

"No, thank you, Doctor, I am quite right," said Kathleen, quietly
picking up the bloody debris and dropping them into a basin which she
carried into the other room. "He is all right now," she said to Mrs.
Waring-Gaunt, who took the basin from her, exclaiming,

"My poor dear, you are awfully white. I am ashamed of myself. Now you
must lie down at once."

"No, please, I shall go home, I think. Where is Nora?"

"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, 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, 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 glass;
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
passionate 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 passing 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 blushing." "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 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 simple
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. "I am
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.

Shocked, startled and filled with a poignant mothering pity, Kathleen
struggled with a longing to take him in her arms and comfort him as the
mother was the little wailing child upstairs.

"Excuse me just a moment," she cried, and ran out into the living room
and then outside the door and stood for a moment in the dark, drawing
deep breaths and struggling to get control of the pity and of the joy
that surged through her heart. "Oh, God," she cried, lifting her hands
high above her head in appeal, "help me to be strong and steady. He
needs me and he wants me too."

From the darkness in answer to her appeal there came a sudden quietness
of nerve and a sense of strength and fitness for her work. Quickly she
entered the house and went again to the sick room.

"Thank God," cried Jack. "I thought I was fooled again. You won't go
away, Kathleen, for a little while, will you? I feel just like a kiddie
in the dark, do you know? Like a fool rather. You won't go again?" He
raised himself upon his arm, the weak voice raised to a pitiful appeal.

It took all her own fortitude to keep her own voice steady. "No, Jack, I
am going to stay. I am your nurse, you know, and I am your boss too. You
must do just as I say. Remember that. You must behave yourself as a sick
man should."

He sank back quietly upon the pillow. "Thank God. Anything under heaven
I promise if only you stay, Kathleen. You will stay, won't you?"

"Didn't you hear me promise?"

"Yes, yes," he said, a great relief in his tired face. "All right, I am
good. But you have made me suffer, Kathleen."

"Now, then, no talk," said Kathleen. "We will look at that arm."

She loosened the bandages. The inflamed and swollen appearance of the
arm sickened and alarmed her. There was nothing she could do there. She
replaced the bandages. "You are awfully hot. I am going to sponge your
face a bit if you will let me."

"Go on," he said gratefully, "do anything you like if only you don't go
away again."

"Now, none of that. A nurse doesn't run away from her job, does she?"
She had gotten control of herself, and her quick, clever fingers, with
their firm, cool touch, seemed to bring rest to the jangling nerves of
the sick man. Whatever it was, whether the touch of her fingers or the
relief of the cool water upon his fevered face and arm, by the time the
bathing process was over, Jack was lying quietly, already rested and
looking like sleep.

"I say, this is heavenly," he murmured. "Now a drink, if you please. I
believe there is medicine about due too," he said. She gave him a drink,
lifting up his head on her strong arm. "I could lift myself, you know,"
he said, looking up into her face with a little smile, "but I like this
way so much better if you don't mind."

"Certainly not; I am your nurse, you know," replied Kathleen. "Now your
medicine." She found the bottle under his direction and, again lifting
his head, gave him his medicine.

"Oh, this is fine. I will take my medicine as often as you want me to,
and I think another drink would be good." She brought him the glass. "I
like to drink slowly," he said, looking up into her eyes. But she shook
her head at him.

"No nonsense now," she warned him.

"Nonsense!" he said, sinking back with a sigh, "I want you to believe
me, Kathleen, it is anything but nonsense. My God, it is religion!"

"Now then," said Kathleen, ignoring his words, "I shall just smooth
out your pillows and straighten down your bed, tuck you in and make you
comfortable for the night and then--"

"And then," he interrupted eagerly, "oh, Kathleen, all good children get
it, you know."

A deep flush tinged her face. "Now you are not behaving properly."

"But, Kathleen," he cried, "why not? Listen to me. There's no use. I
cannot let you go till I have this settled. I must know. No, don't pull
away from me, Kathleen. You know I love you, with all my soul, with all
I have, I love you. Oh, don't pull away from me. Ever since that day
when I first saw you three months ago I have loved you. I have tried not
to. God knows I have tried not to because I thought you were pledged
to that--that German fellow. Tell me, Kathleen. Why you are shaking,
darling! Am I frightening you? I would not frighten you. I would not
take advantage of you. But do you care a little bit? Tell me. I have had
ten days of sheer hell. For one brief minute I thought you loved me.
You almost said you did. But then you never came to me and I have feared
that you did not care. But to-night I must know. I must know now."
He raised himself up to a sitting posture. "Tell me, Kathleen; I must
know."

"Oh, Jack," she panted. "You are not yourself now. You are weak and just
imagine things."

"Imagine things," he cried with a kind of fierce rage. "Imagine! Haven't
I for these three months fought against this every day? Oh, Kathleen, if
you only knew. Do you love me a little, even a little?"

Suddenly the girl ceased her struggling. "A little!" she cried. "No,
Jack, not a little, but with all my heart I love you. I should not tell
you to-night, and, oh, I meant to be so strong and not let you speak
till you were well again, but I can't help it. But are you quite sure,
Jack? Are you sure you won't regret this when you are well again?"

He put his strong arm round about her and drew her close. "I can't
half hold you, darling," he said in her ear. "This confounded arm of
mine--but you do it for me. Put your arms around me, sweetheart, and
tell me that you love me."