She commanded herself, and moving round to the side of the bed, leaned over and put her hand on his forehead. It was dry, like rough paper, and very hot.
What she felt as she bent over him she could not tell. Perhaps more than anything that though he was so huge and fierce a man, he had now only herself and a valet to help him in his helplessness.
She stood thus a moment, then left the room, beckoning Gaynor to follow her. When they were outside, she said:
"Very well," she then said. "I shall dress and go to see him. Would you like me to get a nurse to assist you?"
"If I might venture, madam," said the man discreetly, "it would be better perhaps to hear first what Doctor Carfew says. He may wish a nurse of his own."
"Yes. That is true. Tell Parkson to call me a cab in half an hour."
She put on a dark-blue linen frock and a little toque of black straw.
"Give me my long grey veil, Tilda," she said. As the girl was winding it about her hat, she asked:
"Haven't you a friend who's a Catholic, Tilda?"
"Yes, m'm--Maria Tonks. A very good girl, though a Papist, m'm."
"And what did you say was the name of the priest who converted her?"
"Father Raphael of the Poor, m'm. But he didn't convert her exactly, m'm, if I may say so. She just took such a fancy to 'im, his bein' so kind to her w'en in distress, m'm--as she went and became a Catholic."
"I see. He is very good to the poor, isn't he?"
"So they say, m'm. He gets his name from that. Anybody 'as only to be unfortunate to find welcome with him--so Maria says."
"Yes.... Yes...." said Sophy absently. Then added: "Where does he live?"
Sophy thanked her mechanically and went out.
Dr. Carfew lived in Hanover Square. It seemed a cruelly short way there to Sophy, for the motion of the cab, the rolling forward into the fine, calm rain soothed her. The cabby wanted to lower the glass, but she would not have it. The rain was only a thick drizzle. She put up her veil, and let the beaded moisture beat in upon her face. How lovely were the London plane trees against the varied grey ... and how she hated them, and all that was England--England from whence had come her unspeakable humiliation and misery!
But the next moment, with the soft homeliness of the air upon her cheek, came the realisation that she could not hate the land over which it breathed. It was in her blood as a Virginian to love England. It was only disfigured for her as a friend may be disfigured by a cruel accident, yet remain dear as ever. But though she loved England--she was homesick--homesick. She yearned for the foothills of the Blue Ridge as Pilgrim yearned for the Delectable Mountains. During the short drive to Hanover Square, she was conscious only of this gnawing nostalgia and the undercurrent of determination to return to her own land as soon as possible. The old place, Sweet-Waters, had been left equally to her and Charlotte. Now, Charlotte and her husband, Judge Macon, lived there, at her request, but the house was large and rambling--there would be room for her and Bobby--her thousand dollars a year would keep her from being an expense to them. Joe was fond of her--he would not mind having her live with them....