“Bless you, Miss Rose, of course I will.”
“Buy anything else that is necessary,” I said. “I am going away immediately, but shall be back on Monday afternoon.”
My five minutes were up by this time, and I stole into Jack’s sick-room. He was stretched flat out in bed; his cheeks were wet as if tears had touched them, and one great muscular arm was flung round my mother’s neck. She was kneeling by him, and holding his hand.
The moment I entered she looked round at me.
“My dear love,” she said, “you are perfectly right; Hetty must not be left a moment longer than can be helped. Hush, Jack, you need have no anxiety for your wife. I—I will go to see her myself if it is necessary.”
“No, mother, you must stay with me. You are so pretty and so gentle, and your hand is so soft. Hetty’s hands aren’t as soft as yours.”
Here he began to wander again. My mother followed me out of the room, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh, Rose,” she said, “the poor, poor boy. And you thought, both of you, to hide it from your mother?”
“No, mother, I longed for you to know; I am sure that telling you his story has given Jack the greatest relief. And weren’t you a bit angry with him, mother?”
“Angry, Rosamund? Was this a time to be angry? and do mothers as a rule turn away from repentant sons?”