“It’s a long story, Kathy. And one I’ve wanted to tell you ever since we met. Will you hear it . . . when you’ve finished your round?”
After a brief but intense silence, during which she still gazed at him wide-eyed, she nodded uncertainly, then, as Angus’s mother returned, she reassured her, gave her Moray’s instructions, and they went out. In another half hour she had finished for the day and, without further ado, he pressed hard on the accelerator and drove fast to the hotel. As the deserted lounge was cold and draughty he took her up directly to his sitting-room, where a bright driftwood fire blazed, pressed the bell and ordered hot consommé and buttered toast to be brought immediately. Her look of fatigue, which had worried him that morning, had suddenly intensified—and no wonder, he thought bitterly, after those long hours of chill and sodden slavery. He did not say a word until she was refreshed and warmed, then he drew his chair up to hers.
“I’ve so many things to tell you I scarcely know how to begin, and the last thing I want to do is to bore you.”
“Oh, you won’t. I must hear why you never practised.”
He shrugged slightly.
“A poor student just through college, with an honours degree. A sudden exceptional offer to work in the laboratory of a large commercial enterprise. It’s as simple as that, my dear.”
She studied him earnestly for a full minute.
“But what a waste—what a dreadful waste!”
“I was doing scientific work,” he reasoned mildly, translating his adventures with the pills and perfumes into more acceptable terms.
“Oh, I daresay,” she said, with vigour. “That’s very well for some. But a man like you, with such personality . . .”. She coloured, but went on bravely: “Yes, such gifts, to throw away the chance of helping people, the sick and the suffering, the real purpose of the doctor. It seems a crying shame.” A thought arrested her. “Have you never thought to take it up again?”
“At this late hour!” Hurriedly, to correct any false impression the unfortunate phrase might have given her, he added with pardonable subtraction: “I’m not far off the middle forties.”
“What of it! You’re fit, healthy, in the prime of life: yes, a young-looking man. Why don’t you go back to your real work? Remember the parable of the buried talents.”
“I should have to brush some of the dust off mine.”
At her gratifying reference to his youthful appearance he had smiled so engagingly she was forced to smile in sympathy.
“At least you put me right on my smallpox scare. And me trying to tell you about the femoral artery. What a cheek!”
There was a brief silence. How sweet she was with the firelight playing upon her earnest young face against the darkness stealing into the room. A wave of protective tenderness, almost, but not quite, paternal, swept over him. He half rose.
“Let me get you another cup of that soup.”
“No, no, it was really good, made me much better, but I want, I would like to . . . go on with our talk.”
“You feel strongly on that subject?” His brows were raised humorously.
“I do, oh, I do. It’s my idea of what life should be—helping people. It’s what we’re here for, to do our best for one another. And the greatest of all is charity—that’s what I was brought up to believe. That’s why I trained as a nurse.”
The spiritual content of her words was mildly discouraging but he accepted them kindly. Then, with firmness, he said:
“Kathy, you’re a wonderful nurse—haven’t I seen you in action? I admire and respect you for the work you’re doing, though frankly I don’t think you strong enough for it, but we’ll let that pass. What I do feel, however, is that you could exercise your talents on a different, let’s say a higher level, with much broader and rewarding results. Now, now, wait a minute.” Gently, he stilled her interruption and resumed. “Ever since we met there’s something which I’ve bidden from you, deliberately, because I wanted you to take to me, to like me on my own merits, if I have any.” He smiled. “And I hope you do like me?”
“I do, very much,” she answered, with impetuous sincerity. “I’ve never met anyone who’s made such . . . such an impression on me.”
“Thank you, Kathy dear. So now I’m free to tell you, with all the humility in the world, that I am rather well off. I’m sorry I can’t put it less crudely, for in fact, I’m lamentably and outrageously rich—for which I was never more grateful than at this moment, because of what it’ll enable me to do for you. No, please,” he raised his hand again, “you must let me finish.” Then after a pause, in a graver manner, he went on. “I’m a lonely man, Kathy. My marriage was unhappy . . . well, let’s face it, a tragedy. My poor wife was for years confined to a mental institution, and she died there. I have no children, no one like you to occupy me. All my life I’ve worked hard. Now, at an early age, I’ve retired, with ample leisure and more material possessions than I need, or deserve.” He paused again. “I’ve already told you that I owe a great debt to your family—don’t ask me what it is, or you’ll remind me of my graceless and ungrateful youth. All I need to say is that I must repay that debt, and I want to do so by interesting myself in you, by taking you out of this drab environment, giving you a fitting background, and all the things that you deserve. A full, rich, and rewarding life, and not of course an idle one, for as you have humanitarian ideals you may fulfil them with my co-operation, and with the resources I can put at your disposal.”
While he was speaking she had been looking at him with growing agitation, and now that he had finished she lowered her eyes and for an appreciable moment remained silent. At last she said:
“You are very kind. But it is impossible.”
“Impossible?”
She inclined her head.
“Why?” he asked, persuasively.
Again there was a silence.
“You have probably forgotten . . . but that first day I told you I was giving up the district work for something better. At the end of next month I’m going out to Angola . . . to work with Uncle Willie at the Mission.”
“Oh, no,” he exclaimed in a loud, startled voice.
“But I am.” Smiling faintly, she looked up and met his eyes. “Uncle Willie is coming home to fetch me on the 7th of next month. We’ll fly back together on the 28th.”
Almost stupidly he asked:
“And how long do you mean to stay there?”
“For good,” she answered simply. “I gave my notice to the M.O.H. yesterday.”
A prolonged stillness descended on the room. She was leaving—he calculated quickly—in five weeks’ time. The news devastated him—his hopes blasted, plans fatally ruined—no, he could not, would not accept it. The projects, so well considered, which he entertained, had reached possessive force, not only for her sake, but for his own. She was to be his mission in life. Nothing so inane as this wild desire for self-immolation in the wilds of a tropical jungle must interfere. Never, never. But his wits were coming back to him, he saw the danger of opposing her outright and risking an immediate break. He must work for time and opportunity to change her mind. When he spoke his voice was calm, with the right note of regret.
“This is a severe disappointment, Kathy, a blow in fact. But I can see how intensely, how close this lies to your heart.”
She had been prepared for opposition. At this quiet acceptance her eyes brimmed with grateful sympathy.
“You understand so well.”
“And I’ll help, too.” The thought seemed to revive him. “Willie will have a donation for the Mission—and a handsome one—by the next mail. You’ve only to let me have his address.”