Action is the one thing always understood by youth. Alexina entirely
approved. "I'll go, too," she said, and ran into her room to change
her wrap for a darker one.
There was but one infirmary at the time in the city, and that a
Catholic institution. They could walk a square and take a car to the
door. Alexina, in her haste, never thought of money, but Harriet, as
she came down, had her purse.
Neither spoke on the way; it was all they could do to keep umbrellas
open in the fierce drive of wind and sleet. Alexina bent her head to
catch breath; the sleet whipped and stung her face, the wind seized
her loose cape, her light skirts, bellying them out behind her. But
Harriet, ahead, tall, poised, went swiftly on, and, in the light from
the street gas-post as they waited for a car, her face showed no
consciousness of storm or of aught about her. Yet it was Harriet who
stopped the car, who made the change, and paid the fares. The ride
into town was in silence. It was Harriet who rang the bell before the
infirmary building, who led the way over the icy pavement, up the wide
brick walk through the grounds; it was Harriet who rang the bell at
the big central door, and it was she who entered first past the little
Sister who opened that door.
Not that the little Sister meant to permit it--it was against rules,
she assured them, visiting hours were over. She could tell them
nothing. The doctors were with the gentleman now.
But she let them in. Prison doors must have opened to Harriet that
night, she would have put the little Sister aside if need be and
walked in, Alexina felt that. Perhaps the little Sister felt it too.
She glanced at Harriet furtively, timidly, and, murmuring something
about going to see, glided away.
The two stood in the hall, Alexina gazing at the patron Saint of the
place, in marble on his pedestal. After a time the little Sister
returned and told them the doctor would see them presently and said
something about the parlour, but Harriet shook her head.
Again they waited, the woman and the girl sitting in chairs against
the painted wall, facing the Saint in his niche. The instincts of long
ago arose within Alexina, and unconsciously her lips moved for comfort
to herself in a prayer to the benign old Saint before her, there being
nothing incongruous to her that she was using a little form of child's
prayer taught her by her Presbyterian aunt.
And still they waited, so long that Alexina felt she could not stand
the silence longer, or the waiting. She looked at Harriet, who was
gazing before her, her face colourless, her eyes unseeing. Alexina
began to wonder if the Sister had forgotten they were there.
But at last she came stealing noiselessly back, and, following her, a
young man.
Alexina recognized him at once as the young doctor she had seen going
in and out the cottage, and whose name she remembered was Ransome.
Harriet arose to meet him. He was young and boyish and looked
unnerved. "The others will be down in a moment--the other doctors"--he
told her; "when I saw it was bad--you know I'm just beginning--I
turned it over."
His nice blue eyes looked quite distressed.
"How bad?" asked Harriet steadily.
He looked at her quite miserably, the boy, then gathered himself
together.
"May I ask--I beg pardon--may I know who I am talking to?" though true
to tell he knew who she was, living as he did across from her, but in
his young embarrassment did not know how to say so.
The tall, beautiful woman stood a moment before him, then a slow
colour came up over her throat and face. "I am Miss Blair--Major
Rathbone is--"
Alexina had come close to her side and her young eyes were on the
doctor's appealingly.
He understood; doubtless he had heard the two names connected before;
the affairs of the wealthy Miss Blair and the somewhat famous editor
were likely to be talked over in a city the size of Louisville, or,
perhaps, being young, he merely divined. His distress increased; he
looked quite wretched. "It's bad--I'm mighty sorry to be the one to
tell you."