The Making of a Prig. Evelyn Sharp
He was not long, but she was full of impatient reproaches by the time he joined her at the fence.
"I believe you'd like to give the world a shove to make it go round quicker," he retorted, swinging himself up beside her.
"Well, you surely don't think it moves very fast now, do you?" she said. "At all events, Ivingdon doesn't," she added emphatically.
"Well, what did you come for, old chum?" he asked, smiting her shoulder with rough friendliness. "Not to complain of this slow old hole, I bet?"
"Get me something to eat, and I'll tell you."
"Oh, hang, Kitty! I can't. Cook will swear, or go to the mother, or something. Can't you wait till you get home?"
"No, I can't. And I didn't tell you to go to cook, or to her; did I, stupid? Isn't there a pantry window, and isn't the larder next to the pantry, and aren't the servants having breakfast in the kitchen, out of the way? Eh?"
"Well, I'm bothered! But I can't get up to that window, anyhow."
"There's a loose brick just below, and you know it, you lazy boy! What's the use of being exactly six foot, if you can't climb into a window on the ground floor? I can, and I'm only five foot four. Oh, you needn't bother, if you're afraid! I can keep my news, for that matter."
"I don't believe there is any news. Why, I only saw you yesterday afternoon. And nothing ever happens in Ivingdon. You are only rotting, aren't you, Kit?"
"All right; I don't want to tell you, I'm sure. Good-bye," said Katharine, without moving a step.
He called himself a fool, and told her she was a beastly nuisance, and that of course there wasn't any news, and he didn't want to hear it if there was. And he finally strolled round to the pantry window, as she knew he would, and returned with a medley of provisions in his hands. They laughed together at the odd selection he had made—at the cold pie he was balancing on a slice of bread, and the jam tart that crowned the jug of milk; and they fought over everything like two young animals, and drank out of the same jug and spilled half its contents, and ended in chasing one another round the paddock for no reason whatever.
"Walk home with me, and I'll tell you the news. Come on, Ted!" she cried.
"Guess I will, and chance it. If she doesn't like my being late for breakfast she'll have to do the other thing. Through with you, Kitty, and don't make the hole any larger! There's always the chance that she might have it mended, in a spasm of extravagance, and that would be so bally awkward for us."
She told her news as they went swinging along side by side over the wet fields, leaping the pools of standing water, and switching the wet twigs in each other's face. But they grew quieter as the interest of the tale deepened; and by the time Katharine had reached the episode of the chalk pit, Ted was walking gloomily along with his hands in his pockets and his eyes bent on the ground.
"You always have all the luck, Kitty," he said mournfully. "Why wasn't I there? Think of the use I should have been in helping him into the carriage; only think of it, Kitty!"
"You wouldn't have been a bit of good," she returned cruelly. "You're much too clumsy. They wouldn't even let Jim or daddy help. I held his head, so there!"
"Well, I suppose I could have held his beastly head, too, couldn't I?" roared Ted.
"It wasn't a beastly head; it was awfully nice—hair all silky, not baby's curls like yours," said Katharine scornfully. "And wasn't he plucky, too! His leg must have hurt frightfully, but he just didn't say a word or utter a sound. All the way home, whenever the thing jolted him, he just screwed up his mouth and looked at me, and that was all. It was the finest thing I've ever seen."
"But you haven't seen much," said Ted.
"No, I haven't. But I've seen you squirm when you had toothache. And you're not fit to speak to if you have an ordinary headache," laughed Katharine.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
"That is where he lies now," said Katharine, with a dramatic gesture towards the spare-room window. Her cheeks were red with excitement, and she never noticed the look on Ted's face as he shrugged his shoulders and made a great pretence of whistling carelessly.
"What sort of a chap is he? Some tourist bounder, I suppose," he condescended to say.
"He isn't a bounder. He has awfully nice hands—white, and thin, and soft. He's rather pale, with a lot of black hair and a curly beard."
"What a played-out chap to make such a fuss about!" said Ted, turning away contemptuously. "Sounds more like a monkey than anything else. Good-bye. I wish you joy of him!"
"I suppose I'll see you again some time?" she called after him.
"Oh, yes; I suppose so."
"And it was news, wasn't it, Ted?"
"You seem to think so, anyway."
"Poor Ted!" She laughed, and ran indoors. But he had hardly crossed the first field before she had caught him up again, breathless and penitent.
"I didn't mean it, Ted; I didn't, really, old boy. It wasn't news, and he is a monkey, and I'm a horrid pig. Come up after lunch, won't you, Ted? I promise not to talk about him once, and I want to show you something. You will come, Ted, won't you?"
She flung her arms round him in her impulsive way, and gave him one of her rough, playful hugs. But for the first time in his life, Ted shook her off stiffly, and hastened on.
"What's the matter?" asked Katharine, more perplexed than annoyed.
"Oh, all right; I'll come. Don't be a fool, Kitty!" he jerked over his shoulder; and she turned away, only half satisfied, and went slowly into the house. It was characteristic of her that the smallest lack of response from some one else would change her mood immediately; and when she entered the dining-room a few minutes later, her vivacity was all gone, and the first words she caught of the conversation at the breakfast-table only helped to irritate her still further.
"Oh, bother Mr. Wilton!" she said crossly. "The whole house seems to have gone mad over Mr. Wilton. I am tired of hearing his name."
The Rector seemed unconscious of her remark, and only pulled her hair softly as she slipped into the chair beside him. But Miss Esther stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence, and cast a meaning glance towards Katharine which her father did not see, though she of course did.
"My dear," said Mr. Austen, in reply to his sister, "I am sure you are quite competent to do it. Nancy always said you were a born nurse; and Nancy knew, bless her! Besides, the poor young man has been sent to us in his affliction, and there is nothing else to be done, is there? My child, it will not interest you; we were only saying that Mr.—Wilton, is it?—would require careful nursing; and your aunt—"
"Really, Katharine, there is no necessity for you to interfere. You know too much as it is, and this question is not one that concerns you at all. Perhaps you will keep to the matter in hand until it is settled, Cyril!"
"My dear, I thought it was settled," said the old man mildly. "The poor young fellow has to be nursed, and you are the best person to do it. So there is nothing else, is there, Esther, that need detain me? I am rather anxious—that is, I would like to finish my paper on the antiquities of the county, and it is already ten minutes past—"
"It is a most extraordinary thing," interrupted Miss Esther irritably, "that you never will give your attention to anything that really matters. You totally misunderstand my meaning, Cyril. How can I, your sister and a single woman, with due propriety—Katharine, you can go and feed the chickens."
Katharine did not move, and the Rector got up from his chair.
"My dear," he remonstrated, "I think you over-estimate the difficulty. It is the duty of the woman to look after the sufferer, is it not? I really think there is nothing more to be said about it. Meanwhile—"
"I