Tom telephoned to Mrs. Norris the next day to make certain that he might
see her. He felt that she was an ally in the matter of Nancy, and it was
important to get her advice.
He found her knitting by the yellow lamp in the library. "Well, Tommy
dear," she said, looking at him with a quizzical smile, "was the picnic
a success?"
"Mrs. Norris, you are wonderful. When I think how much I owe to your
generation. After all, I think a woman is loveliest at fifty."
"Oh, flatterer!"
"But you know you cannot get that fine _savoir vivre_ before."
"Oh dear me, how much more _savoir vivre_ I'll have when I'm eighty.
What an old charmer I'll be then! Will you come to see me when I'm
eighty, Tommy?"
"What a question!"
"Well, I hope you won't take me off on any old wishing carpet and put me
down in a damp, horrid place and give me tonsilitis."
"Who has tonsilitis?"
"Nancy, of course, and you gave it to her, you bad thing."
Tonsilitis! He remembered now the damp rug and also certain sniffles
that had required, from time to time on the homeward trip, the
administration of a diminutive handkerchief with a pretty "N"
embroidered, he knew, in the corner. So that is the way he would look
after her!
"What can I do about it?" It was true that Mrs. Norris was taking it
very calmly.
"Do? Why, you can't do anything but wait until she gets over it. You
might go and see her when she begins to pick up."
"I caught cold myself." He had at least been true to that extent.
"Are you doing anything for it? Remind me when you go, and I'll give you
some Squim. It's something new, and it did wonders for Mary."
"Don't you think it might be nice for me to send Nancy some?" asked Tom,
laughing. Tonsilitis was seldom fatal, after all; and what an excellent
excuse to visit her it would be when she was getting better!
"Tommy, dear, haven't you something to tell me?"
"No, not really."
"Not anything?"
"Well, hardly anything." He was sitting near her, and now he leaned
forward and whispered, "I asked her to be my wife, and she refused." It
was not said, however, in the tone one would expect for such an unhappy
message. Mrs. Norris looked at him curiously. "She said she couldn't
answer me now, but as good as gave me permission to ask her again--and
when a girl talks that way, isn't it as good as settled?"
It did look promising, certainly. But then, there was Henry. "What about
Henry?" she asked. "How does he feel?"
"What has he to do with it?"
"Oh my, he has a lot to do with it. He's more than just a brother, you
know. He's her father and mother."
"And aunt, maiden aunt, as well."
Mrs. Norris laughed. "Henry's to be reckoned with, though, just like
Marshal Ney--or was it Cincinnatus? I never can remember."
"But, Mrs. Norris, what am I to do?"
"Why, you must just be very nice and thoughtful to Nancy and as decent
as you can be to Henry, and pray the Good Lord will help you."
"Will you pray for me, too?" Tom had played too much baseball not to
appreciate the value of organized cheering.
"Yes, I'll pray for you." And then Tom jumped up and planted a
thoroughgoing kiss--which was designed for the cheek, but which, upon
her turning quickly, was delivered, in a manner that even Leofwin would
have applauded--upon her neck.
* * * * *
On the sixth day Nancy sat up for a while during Miss Albers' hour and a
half off. There was an abutment at one end of her room which overlooked
the Whitman garden and carried the eye on down the hill until it rested
on the factory in Whitmanville--the factory which made the garden
possible for her. There was a letter in her lap from Tom. It had come
with his roses and it asked her to go with him to the boat race. There
was also a book in her lap, but she made no effort to read it; it was so
much easier just to gaze out of the window and let her mind wander where
it would.
Henry knocked and entered. "Well, this is very nice. Do you really feel
a lot better?"
"Ever so much, thank you. I think probably I'll get up in a day or two."
"I suppose you'll want your tonsils out now, won't you?" The question of
a tonsilectomy had been a moot one for years. Nancy had always been
anxious to have them out, having been told that it was merely a case of
"snip, snip, and a day on ice cream." Henry, who regarded tonsilectomy
skeptically as a fad, and who knew, furthermore, that it was a major
operation for adults and that old Mrs. Merton hadn't walked straight
since she had had hers out, was strongly opposed. This had, in fact,
been an exceedingly sore point with them, and the amount of unhappiness
engendered by it was considerably in excess of that which would have
resulted from an operation when it was first suggested.
"I'll have to wait, of course, until I get well over this. It isn't like
a rheumatism, you know." Nancy had learned the jargon thoroughly.
Well, that subject was now disposed of, and Henry, with the directness
of a trained economist, abruptly went into the main object of his call.
There had been certain features about Nancy's delirium which had
astonished and annoyed him, and he had come with the express purpose of
discussing them should he find Nancy strong enough. He now decided that
she was strong enough. "Do you realize that when your fever was high you
talked at a great rate?" he asked.
"I vaguely remember mumbling and grumbling."
Henry did not relish his task, but he felt it to be his duty--and Henry
had never been one to shirk his duty. "You talked a great deal about
this Tom Reynolds," he said.
"Yes?" Nancy was aware that she coloured. She was aware also of a sudden
sinking sensation, not dissimilar to the one that comes from a too rapid
drop in an elevator. So Henry had come to her at the first possible
moment to protest against "this Tom Reynolds." "He has had a bad
recitation," she thought, "and now he is going to take it out on me,"
and then she called her brother a hard and inelegant name, as people
will when angry with their dearest relatives. Had Nancy been of a
satirical nature she might have made something of her brother's adoption
of Freudian methods; but she was not, and she knew only direct-fire
warfare.
"Nancy," Henry went on, leaning towards her, "surely you are not in love
with that man?"
Had Tom been a head hunter with tin cans in his ears, Nancy would have
loved him at that moment.
"Yes, I am," she said.
Henry stared at her. It was clear she meant what she said. Then he
glanced at the letter and the book that lay in her lap, as people will
notice small things at such times. He guessed in whose handwriting the
letter was, and--the book was _Sonnets from the Portuguese_! She had
even taken to sentimental rubbish!
"Oh Nancy, can't you see that he is not worthy of you? Who are his
people? Where is he from? I wouldn't give _that_ for his future here.
He's lazy, and he's filled you up on a lot of poetry. Nancy, think well
of it before it's too late." She was gazing out the window, hardly
hearing him. She had confessed aloud, before Henry, that she loved Tom.
Henry was going on. "If you won't think of yourself, perhaps you can
think of Henry Third? What is to become of him if you go?"
Nancy turned to look at him. She felt giddy now, and she thought she was
going to cry. It would not do, however, to make a scene, when up to this
point she had acquitted herself so well. "You mean that I should give up
my life to look after your son?"
"Please don't be melodramatic. We know one another so well it isn't
necessary. I am not asking you to give up your life. I am asking you not
to throw it away, and in the meantime you have certain definite
obligations here. You are more than an aunt to Henry. Life here with him
will be far better for you than being the wife of that uncertain boy."
She allowed it to pass, but it gave the final flick to her anger. "You
are the kind of person, Henry, who is so monumentally selfish that you
think everybody who dares to cross you in any way is himself
monumentally selfish too. Now you come to me in a protective role to
save me from 'this Tom Reynolds' with a mass of ill-natured slander--and
lies--because if I go to him you will have to get a new housekeeper."
"Nancy--"
"Don't interrupt me, please. It would be the same, no matter who came.
You would find some dreadful fault in anyone. You always have been
jealous of every man that ever came here and if you had your way you
would keep me here for life." Nancy paused, but her brother did not
offer to speak. She had asked not to be interrupted, and he would be
quite sure that she was through before he spoke again, but he could not
conceal his anger. Nancy noticed it, and her own anger increased. "I
don't think I'd mind it so much, if you didn't pretend that it was all
for my good. That is nothing but rank hypocrisy. Just what have you ever
done to make my life pleasant here? You are never interested in what I'm
interested in, outside of Harry. This lecture business you just laughed
and sneered at. I admit it was ridiculous, but you wouldn't lift your
finger to make it less so. I admit, also, that I would appreciate a
little attention once in a while, but it would never occur to you to
give me any pleasure unless you had to, to get some for yourself. When
you really want to give me a good time you sit down and talk to me about
your miserable old Labour class and what a wonderful lecture you gave
them. Well, Henry, that time is past, and I am going to have my own life
from now on." And the tears which she had been fighting back were no
longer to be denied.
Henry was entirely put out, and he awkwardly got up. Now was clearly not
the time to renew the attack. Nothing that Nancy had said was of the
slightest significance, except her lack of interest in his work. There,
indeed, was a sorry confession of inability to forget herself in the
greatest interest of her nearest relation. Poor wilful girl! Well, he
had done his duty. No one could charge him with unbrotherliness.
Nancy had also got up. "Please go away," she sobbed; and Henry, without
further word, did so.
Nancy crawled back into bed and had her cry out. What a brute he
was--and what a god was Tom! What a miserable snob Henry was about
family--and then for him to say that Tom had no future! Had Tom been a
member of his wretched old Grave, he would have had a very different
view of it. That was the cause of nine-tenths of his dislike, anyway.
Tom was in the rival club and Henry never could see any good in anyone
connected with it. What a miserable, juvenile business! Had not Tom
frankly confessed his need of help? Henry had never in any way indicated
that she could be of service to him, except to order his meals and keep
him comfortable. But Tom had thrown himself upon her. He "needed"
her--that had been his word. With her to help him he felt that he could
do anything. What a career for a girl! That would be living indeed.
She thought of his unanswered letter and climbed out of bed at once.
"Dear Tom," she wrote, and again the tears came into her eyes, "Thank
you so much for the lovely flowers. They are by my bed and I can enjoy
them all day long. It is awfully nice of you to ask me to the Boat Race
and I accept with pleasure. I don't think there will be any question
about my being able to make it. In two weeks I should be perfectly well
again.
"It will be lovely to see you and I can do so at any time now.
"As ever,
"NANCY."
The final draft of the letter was composed only after three preliminary
ones. Nancy found it extremely difficult to get just the right tone. She
couldn't put too much warmth into it, and yet it mustn't be too cold. So
she sat at her desk, copying and recopying, and only succeeded in
finishing it when Miss Albers returned.
"I've done it at last," she announced proudly, her cheeks aflame. Miss
Albers, fortunately one of the few surviving members of the Good Nurse
family, saw the situation immediately.
"Why, I see you have," she said. "Isn't that fine! Now I think you are
entitled to a nice nap." And when Tom arrived, post-haste upon receipt
of Nancy's note, he was met at the front door with the news of her
relapse.