Kitabı oku: «The Girls of St. Wode's», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXIII – THE PICNIC
The Gilroy children were all in the wildest state of excitement. It was a lovely day in July, and they were going off for a picnic on the river. Leslie was standing by the center table in the dining room, busily packing a basket. Kitty was buttering bread and making sandwiches, Mabel was cutting cake into thick slices, Hester was darning a rent in the back of her dress, and Llewellyn was here, there, and everywhere.
“We must start soon,” he said. “When will the baskets be ready? I wonder mother has not come in.”
“Is not she in?” asked Leslie, standing up to her full height, and pressing her hand to her forehead.
“Have you got one of your headaches back again, Leslie?” asked Llewellyn.
“Oh, just a little, very little; but the air will do me good. It will be lovely to-day on the river.”
“Yes, splendid,” said Llewellyn. “We will have tea at Twickenham, and go home in the cool of the evening. You cannot think how nice old Forrest has been about this. He gave me a holiday at once when I asked him this morning. He said that he only wished he kept a provision shop instead of a drapery shop, so that he might send us pies and things for our picnic.”
“But even though he does keep a linen-draper’s shop,” said Hester, “he could still help us. I, for instance, should not at all object to materials for a new gown. This old serge is so thick and hot.”
“But if you put on a white shirt, dear, you will look as neat and nice as possible,” said Leslie; “and won’t be at all too warm.”
“Oh, I can’t be bothered,” said Hester, shrugging her shoulders. “I forgot to send my shirts to the wash on Monday, and I have not one fit to be seen.”
“Then it serves you right if you are hot and uncomfortable,” cried Kitty.
Kitty herself was always the pink of neatness. Hester was evidently the troublesome one of the family.
Leslie went on packing her basket. She wedged in the hard-boiled eggs, raised pies, roast chickens, sandwiches, and the sweets. At last the big basket was quite full.
“Doesn’t it look tempting?” said Mabel, smacking her lips. “How frightfully hungry I’ll be. Oh, don’t forget, whatever happens, the other basket with the ginger beer and lemonade. I only trust we have got enough.”
“And the cold tea for mother,” said Llewellyn; “be sure you put that in.”
The boys and girls chatted eagerly one to the other.
“I say,” cried Kitty, “isn’t it nice to have old Leslie back again? We’ll hate it when you have to return to your grand college in the autumn, Leslie; but I wish,” she added, “you would talk more about it. I thought you’d have no end of rattling good stories to tell us; but you are as mum and quiet as if you had not had a good time at all, whereas, of course, you have had the very best time a girl could have. I suppose it is the weight of all the learning that bothers you. And what about those Chetwynds? You wrote to mother about them, and about that extraordinary girl, Belle Acheson; but since you have come back, you have hardly said a word about any of your fellow-students.”
“I am sorry,” said Leslie. “I will try to tell you something amusing to-day, Kitty. I don’t want to make myself mum and disagreeable.”
“Oh, you are never that, you dear old darling; only, we were hoping for so much – weren’t we, Hetty?”
“Yes,” said Hester, who was still darning the rent in her dress. “I do wish this cotton wouldn’t break so.”
“Give it to me,” said Leslie; “I’ll have it darned in a trice. Ah! there’s mother’s step at last. Dear old mammy, I hope she is not too tired.”
“There is someone coming back with her,” said Kitty. “Don’t you hear two footsteps? Who can it possibly be?”
The next moment the room-door was opened, and Mrs. Gilroy, accompanied by Mr. Parker, came in.
Leslie had not seen Mr. Parker since her interview with him at Wingfield. She now felt herself turning pale; her pallor was suddenly succeeded by a quick flush of color. She hoped no one noticed her agitation; but, raising her eyes, she met those of Llewellyn. His wore a perturbed expression.
Mr. Parker, after greeting the other children, came up to her and offered his hand.
“Glad to see you back again, Miss Leslie,” he said. There was an indescribable, restrained note in his voice.
“Well, children, what do you say to my joining you to-day?” He turned and faced Kitty and Hester. “Your mother was good enough to invite me, and I am as up to a bit of frolic as if I were as young as you. Where is little Dan? He must be my special charge to-day.”
“Kitty, give me those sandwiches. I can finish packing them,” said Leslie in a low voice which she hardly recognized as her own.
After Mr. Parker’s one hand-clasp, which was firm and cordial enough, he had turned his back on her. He still did so, and kept on talking to Llewellyn and the younger children.
Mrs. Gilroy sat down on the sofa.
“It is very hot,” she said.
“And you are very tired,” said Mr. Parker. “Now listen; I am going to have my own way, and nobody shall interfere. What is the good of money if you cannot spend it now and then? You want to go to Richmond?” turning to Mrs. Gilroy, “Go to Richmond you shall, but you are not going by train. No, we will have a carriage, and I will drive you down. A carriage will hold you and myself and a couple of the children. Not another word, my dear friend. What is the good of money if you cannot have a treat?”
“But you do far too much for us, Mr. Parker,” replied Mrs. Gilroy.
“Far too much!” he answered; “tut, tut! not a bit of it. I am a lonely man, madam. My one interest in life is you and your family.”
Here he glanced at Leslie, but the next moment looked away. There was disapproval in his face.
Leslie started up impulsively. All the provisions were packed.
“Yes, mother,” she cried, “do let Mr. Parker drive you; it will do you no end of good.”
“All right, darling. I have not the least objection if you will come with us. I need not ask you, Mr. Parker, if you will object to Leslie being one of the party in the carriage?”
“Dan shall sit on my knee,” said Mr. Parker, “and two of the children can be crowded in. Just as Miss Leslie likes, of course.”
But Leslie had left the room. She called Llewellyn to follow her.
He hurried out.
“What is the matter with you. Leslie?” he said.
“My head is very bad. I cannot go to the picnic.”
“Leslie! you will upset us all, and as to mother – ”
“Listen, Lew, I cannot give you any reason; but neither can I go, and I want you to help me.”
“But I fail to understand. You were full of going a moment ago.”
“I know, but with a headache like mine there is nothing for it but rest and quiet. Do help me, please. I am most anxious that mother should have this one delightful, happy day. Let Kitty and Mabel go in the carriage, and Dan too, if there is room, and will you take Hester by train? Let mother think that I am coming with you. Then, when you meet by the river, you must just tell her that I had a bad headache, and was obliged to stay at home. I cannot go, Lew; there is no use in coaxing me; and I do not wish mother to know until she gets to Richmond.”
“Well, of course, I’ll manage it if it must be managed,” said Llewellyn; “but I cannot imagine what is up. I am certain it is more than a mere headache; but of course, Leslie, I have no intention of forcing your confidence.”
“Don’t, like a darling,” said Leslie. She touched him on the arm, and looked into his face.
“Then, you are in trouble, dear old girl?”
Tears rose to her eyes.
“Yes; but you cannot help me to bear it. It is something which I must not tell to anyone. I must just bear my burden alone. Do not ask me any more.”
“I won’t, and I’ll manage things for you. Run upstairs now, and keep quiet. I’ll tell mother when we get to Richmond that you were a bit seedy; but that a few hours of rest will put you right.”
He hurried off, and a few moments later Leslie from her window saw the carriage party get under way. Soon afterwards, Llewellyn and Hester started off for the railway station. Leslie found herself alone. She sat down by her window, and tried to face the position. It had not been the first time she had made a gallant effort to do so.
“What am I to do?” she said now to herself. But the answer came quickly.
“Live it down,” was the reply of her heart. “Be true to your sense of honor. Save your friend if you can. Bear the terrible and cruel position in which you are placed. Trust to God putting things right.”
“But the dreadful part of it is,” thought poor Leslie, “that He is making me so hard. I almost hate Annie Colchester. I did not know it was in me to feel so bad about anything. There is one thing certain: I shall never be able to endure Mr. Parker’s eyes. I shall have to leave the room or the house when he comes to see us. There, I must not sit still any longer. Poor darling Lew; he little knows what I am really suffering.”
Early in the afternoon there came a ring at the front door, and who should be seen standing on the threshold but the well-known figure of Belle Acheson!
Leslie ran to let her in.
“How lucky that I was in,” she said. “Please come into the dining room, Belle.”
“So this is your domicile,” said Belle. She raised her eyes, and looked up at the windows; then glancing round the walls, finally settled them on the much-worn carpet at her feet.
“Neat, but not gaudy,” she said; “not much to complain of when all is said and done. How do you do?”
She held out her hand to her friend. Leslie grasped it.
“I am delighted to see you,” said Leslie. “I am all alone, for mother and all the children are on the river.”
“And you, you dear, faithful soul, have stayed at home to go on with your literary studies?” exclaimed Belle, her eyes gleaming.
“Not a bit of it, Belle; you must not think me better than I deserve. I stayed at home to mope.”
“To mope? Surely you are not regretting? Having put your hand to the plow, you are not looking back? Leslie, I could never have thought it of you!”
“I am not looking back, Belle. I am still as fond as ever of my studies; but at the present moment I am not thinking of literature nor of college life at all. Sit down; how hot you look! The day is such a sultry one.”
“Hot,” said Belle, “is it? Perhaps I am hot; I don’t know. Does heat matter? that is the question.”
She flung off her hat, and let it tumble on the floor. Her brow was wet with perspiration.
“No physical discomforts seem to matter as far as you are concerned,” said Leslie with a smile.
“I do not feel physical suffering,” said Belle: “that is the truth. My mind is wrapped in meditation and thoughts of the future. I long for this tiresome holiday to be at an end. I have one comfort, however; my money is continuing to heap up. When I finish my collegiate career, I shall have quite enough to open my hostel. I shall call it a hostel for the lovers of pure literature. I am sure it will do well; it will supply a long-felt need.”
But Leslie was not in the humor to talk about the hostel just then.
“I have a great deal to worry me just now,” continued Belle. “Mother has so little sympathy; I have no consolation but one or two books – the best of friends. By the way, Leslie, you don’t look too bright yourself; your brow has quite a haggard look. I am certain, although you will not acknowledge it, that you are missing St. Wode’s.”
“In many ways I am, dear.”
“Oh, this is delicious,” said Belle. She hopped up from her seat, and drew a chair close to Leslie.
“Does your mother object to your studies?” she said. “Does she – ”
“No, Belle; you don’t understand my mother. I only wish you could meet her. My trouble has nothing to do with my studies. I have a care that I cannot confide to anyone.”
“Pray, don’t; at least never confide in me. It is the last thing I wish to be – the recipient of another person’s secrets. I either forget what I am told, or I blurt it out to the next person I come across. You had better let your worry go; that’s my advice.”
“Let it go? I wish I could.”
“You can if you will do what I ask. Absorb yourself in work; cease to fret about mere externals. What do they matter? Heat, cold, worry, pain even, nothing matters if one can but grasp the riches of the past.”
“But what about the riches of the future, Belle? You are so fond of looking back: do you never look forward?”
“Forward,” said Belle; “yes, I sometimes do. I look forward to the time when frivols will be exterminated forever, when the drones in the ordinary course of things must die out. Leslie, dear, would you feel inclined to hear me recite some verses of my own this morning? I have been in the poetic mood for the last few days, and last night the poet’s frenzy really seized me. My lines begin with ‘Delve, delve, deeply delve.’”
“I don’t think I quite follow,” said Leslie.
“Quite follow! but it is so simple. The metaphor refers to a miner, the gold is beneath. He delves, he obtains, his joy is unutterable.”
“But I am not in the humor for poetry to-day. The fact is, I am not in the humor to be anything but disobliging.”
“Now, that I do not believe; but I will keep my verses until they are quite finished, each stanza correct, the swing, the meter perfect. By the way, have you seen the Chetwynds since they came down?”
“No.”
“I hear that Eileen has taken some dreadful disease exploring in back slums. Her mother is in a terrible state.”
“But is Eileen really ill?” asked Leslie, starting up.
“So I have heard; they say she is rather bad. Oh, my dear, it is only the body; pray don’t worry!”
“But, Belle, this is intolerable. We cannot do without our bodies while we live. Poor Eileen ill! What did you say? Fever?”
“I do not know that I did; but it is fever – typhoid or typhus, or something of that sort. I didn’t quite catch the name. It may be smallpox, but I don’t think so.”
“Belle, you are intolerable; you have no sympathy.”
“Intolerable?” said Belle. “Now, my dear Leslie, for goodness’ sake, don’t get commonplace. You may be quite certain that Eileen has the best doctors and the best nurses which London can afford. Does it help her that you should have that flush on your cheeks and that frown between your brows? Does it help her that you should abuse me? All this emotion is waste – waste of sympathy.”
“I am sorry, but I must give it,” said Leslie. “Dear Marjorie, how she will feel it. I must go and inquire after Eileen immediately.”
“I thought you were not well yourself.”
“I have a headache, but what does that matter? I must go to see Marjorie immediately, and to hear about Eileen.”
“If you want to make your inquiries properly,” said Belle, “go by the underground. It is so hot that you will feel yourself a real martyr. Put on your thickest coat and your heaviest hat, and then you will really enjoy yourself. Good-by: I am going away, as I see it is your wish. I will come another day when you feel more like the Leslie Gilroy whom I used to admire at St. Wode’s.”
“I will never be the Leslie that you admired if you wish me not to give sympathy to those in trouble,” replied Leslie.
She ran upstairs, put on her hat, took up her gloves, and went out.
CHAPTER XXIV – THE TWINS
Leslie arrived at the Chetwynds’ house to see the street outside covered with straw. The knocker to the door was muffled. She rang the bell. The footman replied to her summons, said that Miss Eileen was very ill indeed, and that he did not believe the young lady could be admitted, but if she particularly wished it, he would go and inquire.
He was just stepping on tiptoe across the hall when a face was pushed outside a sitting-room door, and the next moment Lettie rushed up to Leslie.
“Oh, do come in, Leslie,” she cried. “I am so lonely and miserable, and it would be an immense comfort to see anyone. Yes, Eileen is very ill, very ill indeed. The doctor says that the typhoid is running a most severe course, and there are complications, a chance of pneumonia, if you know what that means. Come in, do. I know Aunt Helen won’t mind my asking you in, and as to Marjorie – ”
“Oh! it is poor Marjorie I am so terribly anxious about,” said Leslie. “How is she bearing up? They are so devoted to each other.”
“Well, really, Leslie, to be plain with you, Marjorie is in a very extraordinary state. She simply won’t be reasonable. None of us can make her out, and the doctors are terribly annoyed with her. She cannot be got to leave Eileen’s room; we cannot drag her away. Poor Aunt Helen is in a perfectly terrible state about her. Her face is completely changed; she won’t eat anything, and only drops off to sleep when she is too tired to stay awake for a moment. Leslie, if anything happens to Eileen, Marjorie will die.”
“But surely, Lettie, Eileen cannot be so bad as all that?”
“She is very bad indeed, I can tell you; I don’t think she can be much worse. There were two doctors here this morning, and there are two nurses, a day and a night nurse, on duty; and now Dr. Ericson wants to call in a third. Eileen took that horrible fever in the buildings where the coachman lives, not a doubt of it.”
“But I didn’t know that typhoid fever was really infectious,” said Leslie.
“In the ordinary sense it is not; but a whole family were down with it in A Block, and Eileen would go to the house, and she was very hot and thirsty, and they gave her some water to drink, and now it seems that all that water was terribly contaminated. It had some of those queer little things they call bacilli in it, and Dr. Ericson said they were the bacilli of typhoid fever. How puzzling these modern scientific names are!”
Lettie sank into an easy chair, and invited Leslie to one by her side.
“The fever is not infectious to us, you know,” she continued, “and that in a kind of way is a comfort. Eileen began to be poorly and not herself a week ago. Now she is very ill and quite unconscious, and yet the very worst stage of the fever is yet to come. You cannot imagine the state poor Aunt Helen is in.”
“I earnestly wish I could help,” said Leslie.
“Well, you are helping when you come to see me, for I do want cheering up dreadfully. Belle Acheson was here for a moment or two this morning. What a terrible girl she is!”
“I like her,” replied Leslie. “I think she has a great deal in her. She at least is thoroughly out of the common.”
“I grant you that,” answered Lettie; “but preserve me from such uncommon people. Give me the everyday sort of character. Not,” she added, “that I feel unkindly towards her, and I really did try to take compassion on her unfortunate wardrobe; but that, perhaps, was because I did not like the respectability of our dear old hall to be damaged by her thoroughly disreputable appearance. Dear, dear!” added Lettie, sighing gently, “how far away all that time seems now. We looked forward so much to the long vacation; and see what has happened – Eileen so terribly ill.”
Just at that moment the room door was opened, and Mrs. Chetwynd entered. She had never seen Leslie before, and rather resented her intrusion on the scene.
“My dear Lettie,” she said, “I wish you would go up to Marjorie, for I cannot quiet her. She has left the sick-room for a wonder, and gone into her own, and there she has broken down in the most extraordinary manner. I tremble lest her cries and groans should reach Eileen’s ears. Perhaps this young lady – I did not catch her name – oh, Miss Gilroy – perhaps Miss Gilroy, under the circumstances, you will excuse us.”
“Yes, Aunt Helen, I will go up,” said Lettie; “but I don’t think I shall be of the least use. I seem to have lost all power of soothing or helping either of the girls. When I was with them at school they rather deferred to my opinion on certain matters, but now all things are changed.”
“Don’t stand talking there, dear; do go,” said Mrs. Chetwynd.
“I will go, of course, but I warn you I shan’t be the least scrap of use. Good-by, Leslie; it was kind of you to call. Miss Gilroy is one of our special chums at college, Aunt Helen, and a great friend both of Eileen’s and Marjorie’s.”
“In that case, sit down for a minute or two, Miss Gilroy. Now run, Lettie; please don’t wait another moment.”
Lettie left the room, and Mrs. Chetwynd stared at Leslie. Leslie returned her gaze with one frank and sympathetic.
“I am so truly sorry for you,” she said in her soft voice. Her brown eyes gazed full into Mrs. Chetwynd’s agitated face. “And I know what illness means,” continued Leslie very softly, “for Llewellyn – I beg your pardon, I mean my dear brother – he was terribly ill once, almost at death’s door. Oh, yes, I know what my mother suffered, and what we all felt; but he got quite well again, as strong as ever. We had a bad time, but it was over soon. It will be just the same with Eileen, I feel convinced.”
“Oh, my dear child, if I could but believe it. I never felt in such a terrible state in my life, and I know the doctors are most anxious. I must go back; I cannot add another word. Good-by; thank you for coming. Your name is – ”
“Gilroy,” said Leslie.
“Thank you, Miss Gilroy, for coming. Lettie will let you know how Eileen gets on.”
“I will call again to-morrow morning to inquire, if you will allow me,” said Leslie.
“Certainly, if you wish.”
The widow spoke in an indifferent tone. She opened the door, and Leslie was just going into the hall when Lettie rushed downstairs.
“Marjorie wants you, Leslie; you are to go straight up to her this minute.”
“Marjorie wishes to see Miss Gilroy?” interrupted Mrs. Chetwynd.
“Yes, Aunt Helen; and a very good thing too. I just happened to mention that Leslie had called, and Marjorie said at once she must see her, that no one in all the world could do her so much good. Go up to her, Leslie; don’t waste time talking.”
“May I?” said Leslie, looking anxiously at Mrs. Chetwynd.
“Oh, certainly, dear, if she wishes it; but I must own – ”
“Come, come, Leslie, there is not a minute to lose,” said Lettie.
They flew upstairs together, and a moment later had entered Marjorie’s room.
Marjorie had flung herself face downwards on the bed. She was wearing an untidy serge skirt, and a loose, ill-fitting washing blouse. Her tangled short hair was waved like a mop over her head. She did not look up when she heard the two girls enter the room; and when Leslie’s soft voice said, “I am very sorry for you, Marjorie.” her only reply was to clutch the pillow, round which she had clasped her arms, more convulsively than ever, and to say in a choking voice, “I wish Lettie would go away. I know she is in the room too. I want to be alone with you, Leslie.”
Lettie raised her brows, made a pantomimic sign to Leslie to show how badly she was appreciated, and stole on tiptoe out of the room.
“Has she gone?” asked Marjorie, still keeping her face hidden.
“Yes.”
“Well, shut the door, won’t you?”
Leslie did so.
“Turn the key in the lock, please.”
“Oh, Marjorie! is that right to your mother?”
“I won’t see mother, and I won’t see Lettie. Lock the door, will you, at once?”
Leslie instantly turned the well-oiled key in the lock. When she had done so, Marjorie sat up, pushed the hair from her forehead, and looked at Leslie from between her swollen eyelids.
“I feel so dazed,” she said.
Her face was red and inflamed in parts, and deadly white in other parts, her eyes had sunk into her head, and their color was almost washed away with violent weeping.
“Oh, come close, Leslie,” she said, suddenly stretching out her arms; “let me lean against you.”
Leslie went up to her; she clasped her own strong arms round her, laid the tired, flushed face against her breast, pushed back the hair with one of her hands, and began gently to stroke the hot cheek.
“There, darling, there,” said Leslie. She did not say anything more, not even “I am sorry for you,” but she kept on repeating the “there, darling, there,” until Marjorie, like a tired baby, closed her eyes, and actually dropped off to sleep.
Leslie sat motionless, bearing the weight of the tired girl’s head on her shoulder. Marjorie slept for about ten minutes, then with a violent start she looked up, saw Leslie, and clutched hold of her with a fierce strain.
“Oh, I have had such an awful dream,” she said. “I thought you were here, but that you would not stay, and that Eileen was lying on the bed dead, and that you would not let me touch her. Oh, I am glad it was a dream, and that you are here. You will stay now, won’t you? I can just bear to be away from Eileen when you are here, for you are not like others; you seem to understand. Will you go and find mother, and ask her to let you stay with me?”
“Could we not ring the bell and tell the servant, and perhaps your mother would come here?”
“But I won’t have her in the room; she does worry me so dreadfully.”
“She is in great trouble, too,” said Leslie. “You ought to be kind to her, Marjorie.”
“Oh, don’t begin to lecture me; I can’t stand it. You must let me have my own way now, whatever happens in the future. You have come here of your own will, and go you shan’t.”
“I will stay with you if it will really comfort you,” said Leslie. “What you want more than anything else is a long, quiet sleep, and you must have it. Lie down; I will go and find your mother.”
Marjorie flopped down again on the bed, seized the pillow, clasped it in her arms, and buried her head in it.
Leslie unlocked the door and went out. On the landing a faint smell of carbolic and eau-de-Cologne greeted her. She stood for a moment hesitating. As she did so, a nurse came out of the sick-room.
“I saw you standing there, and thought perhaps you wanted something,” she said.
“Yes, I want to find Mrs. Chetwynd,” replied Leslie, in a low voice.
“She is in her room, and, I hope, asleep. Perhaps I can do something for you?”
“I wished to see her. I have a message from Marjorie.”
“Poor child, I trust she is becoming more reasonable. What does she want, may I ask?”
“She wishes me very much indeed to stay with her. She thinks she can bear to be away from Eileen if I am here.”
“Then, for Heaven’s sake, do grant her request. It is quite unnecessary to awaken poor Mrs. Chetwynd to tell her this. In the interest of my patient, I take upon myself the responsibility of giving you permission to stay. Do you need any clothes? We can send a messenger presently.”
“I must write to my mother, who will send me what I require,” replied Leslie. “Very well, I will go back to Marjorie now. You are quite certain that Mrs. Chetwynd won’t mind?”
“Mind! She will bless you.”
“Please, please, nurse, tell me before I go, how Eileen really is?”
The nurse shook her head.
“She is very ill indeed,” she answered.
“Do you mean,” said Leslie, turning pale, “that there is danger?”
“Don’t ask me,” said the nurse. “We are doing what we can for her; but in God’s hand alone are the issues of life.”
She stole back to the sick-room, and Leslie returned to Marjorie.
Marjorie was now sitting up on the bed. Her chin rested on her hands; her eyes, with a startled, strained look in them, turned slowly to Leslie when she entered the room.
“I heard you talking to nurse,” she said. “Did she – did she – tell you – anything?”
“Nothing special, dear, except that she was sure I might stay here. I could not find your mother, and nurse took the responsibility of giving me leave.”
“Oh, of course you may stay. It is not that I mean; but did she tell you anything – anything about Eileen?”
“I asked her if Eileen were in danger,” said Leslie, “and she said, ‘We are doing all we can for her; but in God’s hands are the issues of life.’”
“Oh, then it is hopeless,” said Marjorie. “I – I always thought it was.” She got off the bed as she spoke. She was trembling so excessively that she nearly fell. Leslie went up and tried to put her arm round her waist.
“Don’t touch me,” said Marjorie. “I can’t bear anyone to touch me now. It is all too true. They have been trying to keep the truth from me. Did I not read it in their faces? Even the doctors have deceived me. Leslie, oh Leslie, if you saw her now you would not know her.”
Marjorie came up close to Leslie as she spoke.
“Her face is so sunken, and, oh, so white, and her eyes so very big. You know what lovely eyes Eileen always had – so soft in expression, so full of the soul which animated all she ever did, or thought, or said; but now, Leslie, now if you could see them – they have a sort of spirit-look. She was always unearthly, and now she is going away. She is going to the better and the spiritual world; and I, oh Leslie, I can’t bear it.”
Marjorie turned away, walked to the window, rested her elbow on the sill, and looked out.
“I cannot, cannot bear it,” she repeated at intervals.
Leslie remained motionless for a few minutes; she was thinking hard.
“Of course,” she said, after a long pause, “there is only one thing to be done.”
“Only one thing – yes, I know what you mean. I am to quiet myself, to crush back my misery, my despair. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll wash my face and hands, and make my hair tidy and go back to her again. She never loved anyone in all the world as she loved me. I am her twin, you know, and twins are so close to each other, fifty times closer than the ordinary brother and sister. I’ll go back to her, and I’ll stay so quiet that even the nurses won’t have anything to complain of. You need not remain in this house after all, Leslie, for I cannot be with you. I must return to my darling.”
“And by so doing be dreadfully selfish and injure her,” said Leslie.
“Selfish, and injure her!” repeated Marjorie.
“Yes, injure her, and take away the faint chance there may be of her life.”
“But you cannot mean that, Leslie. What possible harm can I do her? How perfectly ridiculous you are! I injure my own Eileen? Why do you speak in that way? It is impossible that I could injure her.”
“I know you will injure her if you go back. You don’t look natural, Marjorie. You must try to subdue your emotion. You are much too flushed, your eyes are too full of anxiety. The very tone of your voice is all strain. Now, Eileen ought to have no anxious person in her room. So much depends on all that sort of thing being kept out of the sickroom; and, dear,” – Leslie’s voice shook, – “I don’t know that I ought to say it, and yet I will – there is one thing to be done.”
