When the wheel-tray appeared in the door of the Children's Ward and Aunt Jane—with her arms overflowing—close behind it, there was silence for a breath, and then a cry——
"Look there!"
"My goodness!"
"See the flowers!"
They leaned forward with eager hands, or raised themselves on a hand or elbow, as she went down between the beds, pushing the wheel-tray before her.
She smiled and nodded and came to a full stop by the big table in the centre of the ward. She laid her armful of flowers carefully on the table and turned to the tray.
The room was in a joyful bubble. "Where did they come from? Look at the roses. My!"
They reached out hands to her—"Where'd they come from, Aunt Jane?"... "Who sent them to us?"... "My! Look at the vi'lets!"
She smiled and heaped the blossoms on the table and disclosed the three boxes beneath. There was a hush of expectancy. There were always flowers in the ward—a bunch or two here and there—but not such a feast as these!
They waited, impatient.
Aunt Jane took her time. She polished her glasses and returned them to her nose and adjusted them carefully. Then she took up one of the boxes and read the florist's name printed on the top—"J. L. Parker & Co. He always sends nice flowers," she said heartily.
"Did he send them to us?"
"Well, they came from his greenhouse. He raised them—planted them and took care of them, and so on." Her fingers were busy with the tape, untying it. "But another mansentthem—a man by the name of—Herman."
"Mr. Herman sent them!" They waited.
She lifted the cover and held out the box and a little cry went up from the ward, half repressed and full of awed delight.... It was a happy thing to see a great trayful of blossoms come rolling in; and it was a still more beautiful thing to have the cover liftedfrom the box, and all that color and fragrance leap out!
They watched with eager eyes.
Aunt Jane lifted a card from the top of the flowers and looked at it and tucked it away in the pocket of her big apron. The card had a narrow black edge.
"What did it say, Aunt Jane? What was on it?"
Aunt Jane looked at them over her glasses. "Just the name," she said. "The name of the one that sent them. People always send names with flowers, don't they?" She lifted a handful of the blossoms and shook them loose till they filled and overflowed the box. "They send names—so you'll know who it was sent them."
"Mr. Herman sent these, didn't he?"
"Yes, Mr. Herman sent them and you're going to each have one for your own. I'm going to let you choose."
There was laughing and chatter and a happy stir as Aunt Jane carried the boxes from bed to bed.
She watched the hands reach to the choosing—and hesitate—and the eyes fill withlight—and little smiles come as they sank back contented.... She had a sudden glimpse of Herman Medfield in his blue-and-gold Chinese coat, waving them away.
"Seems a pity he can't see them," she thought, watching the faces. "They're all different—just as different as the flowers be!"
For some of them held the flowers in both hands; and some of them laid them on the pillows and some were smelling them and some were only looking; and one blossom was caught into the iron framework of a bed where the sun fell on it and the child was looking at it with wonder-filled eyes.... It was her own—her flower—that some one had sent—a crimson rose with soft dark color clear to the heart of it where the sun went in. It nodded down to her.
Aunt Jane, looking at her, thought of the people who had sent the flowers to Herman Medfield.
"I guess they didn't any of them think anything quite as nice as this would come of their flowers!" she said to the nurse who had brought the vases and jars for the flowers and was standing beside her at the table.
The nurse glanced down the ward. "They like them, don't they? But it seems a pity, almost, not to have them in water. They fade so soon!"
"Well, I don't know"—Aunt Jane surveyed the room slowly—"I guess they're doing about as much good now as they ever will. There's something about a flower—about holding it right in your hand—that does something to you. It isn't the same thing as having it in water."
"I don't see why not." The nurse glanced again, a little puzzled, down the room.
"Well, I don't know whynot," said Aunt Jane. "Seems as if it would be the same.... But it isn't! When it's in water somehow you know it's safe—yourrose.... You know it's going to keep—just as long as it can; and you look at it—kind of on the outside. But when you have it in your hand—it's all there! Maybe you know it can't last very long and you just take it in all over——"
The nurse laughed out.
"Yes, I know that sounds foolish," Aunt Jane nodded. "But we don't any of us know just what happens to us." She was lookingdown the ward as if she saw something beyond the beds and the sun shining in on them.
The nurse gathered up the bits of leaves and the stems and litter from the floor and table and threw them on the wheel-tray and pushed it from the room.
The children's eyes watched it go and returned to their blossoms.
Jimmie Sullivan had clumped over to Aunt Jane, carrying his carnation. His new leg worked better to-day. He reached up an arm and Aunt Jane bent her ear.
She listened and shook her head. "No, I can't tell stories to-day. I'm going to hold Susie a little while, and then I've got my work to do. I can't be bothering with you children all the time!"
She went over to the bed where the crimson rose was and held out her arms. The child climbed into them and laughed. She was a gay little thing—not four years old. To-morrow she would be sitting up and the next day she would go home.
Aunt Jane knew the home.... The father and mother drunk, perhaps. The child had been broken, between them, and hadcome to the House of Mercy for repairs.... She held her in her arms and rocked a little—and thought.... Something must be done to protect the child.... Dr. Carmon must do something. He always did things—if he had to. Aunt Jane rocked back and forth, thinking. She must take him when he was in good humor—to-morrow morning perhaps.
The child raised her hand to Aunt Jane's face. "You don't smile!" she said imperiously.
Aunt Jane looked down at her severely.
The child laughed out, and nestled close and presently they were playing a game. It was not a new game in the ward; other children played it sometimes. But you were only allowed to play it if you had been very ill and were getting well; or perhaps if you were going home—day after to-morrow, and father and mother might be drunk and might break tables and chairs—and perhaps a child's arm if it got in the way of their playfulness.... The game was to catch Aunt Jane off guard and take off her spectacles and cap—and see how she looked.
The child reached up a quick hand andlaughed.... Aunt Jane dodged and shook her head, and escaped the hand. And then—perhaps because Susie was going home day after to-morrow—she had caught off the spectacles and Aunt Jane's cap lay on the floor and the hair was escaping from its pins and coming down all about her face and shoulders—and the child was lying back against her arm, looking at her and laughing happily.
The door from the corridor swung silently, and Dr. Carmon stood looking into the room.
The children in the beds turned merry eyes to him.
But his hand made a gesture and they held their breath, laughing as he came down between the beds and stood looking sternly at the figure in the big chair.
Aunt Jane was groping at the tumbled hair and she was laughing gently, watching the child's face.
Then she looked up——
"Mercy sakes!" Her hand reached for her cap.
But Dr. Carmon had bent to the floor and picked up the cap. He was holding it andlooking at her. "How old are you, Aunt Jane?" he said sternly.
Aunt Jane, out of the maze of her hair, looked up. "I am forty-five years old," she said. "Give me my cap!"
"Say, 'please,'" said Dr. Carmon gravely, holding it at arm's length.
From the beds, the children looked on with shining eyes.
Aunt Jane looked at the cap—and at the child in her arms—and felt the eyes encircling her—and smiled a little.
"Please," she said meekly, and her hand reached up.
But Dr. Carmon held it still at arm's length. "Say, 'please, Frederic,'" he insisted.... Not even the nearest bed could have guessed the words that went with the laughing gesture of the hand holding the cap.
But Aunt Jane's face flushed swiftly.
She gathered the child in her arms and carried her to her bed and put her down gently. Then her hands caught up the tumbled hair and fastened it in place and smoothed it down, and she came placidly back to Dr. Carmon.
His face was very grave. But something in behind his eyes laughed.
He held out the cap with a low bow.
She took it and put it on her head, with dignity, and looked for her spectacles.
"They're on the table," said Dr. Carmon.
He handed them to her and she put them on and gazed at him in serene competence. "I'll send Miss Simpson up to you—I suppose you'll want her," she said.
"Yes—please," said Dr. Carmon, polite and grave.
Aunt Jane hesitated a second. Then her hand motioned to the beds. "The Lord never see fit to let me have any of my own—not to grow up.... I've always thought he was making it up to me this way," she said, and there was something almost like an appeal in the quiet words.
The doctor looked at her, and then at the children's faces. "I should say he's making it up tothem," he said gruffly.
He watched the serene figure as it passed through the swinging doors.... His face, as he went among the children and questioned them and listened absently to theirreplies, was full of gentleness and kindness, and a little, shy, flitting happiness that beamed on them.
The cards Aunt Jane had taken from the boxes of flowers remained untouched in her apron pocket.
She had intended to take them to Herman Medfield at once. But the days that followed the flowers in the Children's Ward had been busy ones. Serious cases had come in and Dr. Carmon's face had been severe and a little anxious. No one would have guessed from its puckered gaze as he looked at Aunt Jane and gave minute directions for the case in Room 18 that he had ever seen the correct muslin cap except as it looked now, framing her serene face.
He gazed at it absently and fussed at his pocket and took out his notes and consulted them. "I am to be sent for, you understand, if there is the slightest change!" He looked at her severely.
"We'll send for you," said Aunt Jane quietly, "same as we always do."
There was a tap on the office door and she went leisurely across to open it.
It was the laundress with three cards in her wet thumb. She half drew back as she caught a glimpse of Dr. Carmon's bulky form.
"I found 'em in the pocket of your apron," she announced in a stage whisper. "They got a little mite wet, but I dried 'em off."
Aunt Jane received the cards and returned to Dr. Carmon.
He glanced at them inquiringly.
"Some cards that came with flowers." She laid them on her desk.
"Somebody been sending you flowers!" He relaxed a little over the joke.
"Mr. Medfield's flowers," said Aunt Jane tranquilly.
His pencil stopped and he regarded the cards stiffly.
"How many cards does he send you with flowers?" he asked.
Aunt Jane smiled. "He didn't send them. They came with some flowers forhim."
"Umph!" Dr. Carmon's pencil went on with its notes. When he had gone and Aunt Jane was alone in the office—she took up thecards and looked at them. She might take them up to Mr. Medfield now, before dinner—There would be time.
Herman Medfield had summoned Aunt Jane several times during the hurried days, and she had sent back word each time that she would come when she was not so busy.
She smiled a little as she looked down at the cards. She could see him, fuming and giving instructions that she was to come at once, and Miss Canfield's face as she took the message.
She put the cards in her pocket and went along the hall to Suite A.
Herman Medfield propped up in bed, surrounded by books and papers, looked up with a little scowling frown.
Aunt Jane glanced at it and crossed the room. She gathered up the books and papers from the bed and carried them to the table and laid them down. "I guess you won't want these any more, will you? It's most dinner-time."
She sat down by him.
His face relaxed. "I haven't seen you for four days," he remarked dryly.
"I've been busy," returned Aunt Jane. "A good many folks suffering."
He was silent. She watched the face with a shrewd, kindly smile.
"You hadn't thought as anybodycouldsuffer, maybe—anybody except you?"
"No—I hadn't thought of anything." He looked ashamed, but he held his point. "I'vesuffered—horribly!" he said.
"I thought likely you would." Aunt Jane was placid.
He stared.
"You're the kind that's liable to suffer," she said slowly, "—all sort o' tewed up inside.... That kind has to suffer a good deal."
He looked down at his hands. Probably no one had ever spoken to Herman Medfield just as Aunt Jane was speaking.
She held the cards toward him—the black-edged one on top. "They came in your flower-boxes."
He took them without seeing them. Then he glanced at the black one and pushed them away.
"The same one that came before—isn't it?" remarked Aunt Jane serenely.
"Yes."
"I thought it was the same name. The flowers were nice that came with it—roses—red ones."
He was silent.
"I gave Susie Cannon a bunch of them to take home with her. Her folks drink—both of 'em."
He stared at her. Then his face smiled a little. "It's a new cure for the drink habit, isn't it—red roses?" He laughed a little cynically.
Aunt Jane regarded him impartially.
"Your folks didn't ever any of 'em drink, did they?"
"You mean—?" His face was politely puzzled.
"Get drunk, I mean— You don't come of a drinking family, do you?"
"No." His eyes were still a little amused.
"I reckoned not. Steve Cannon does—and his wife drinks. They'd broke Susie's arm between 'em. So she came to us."
He was looking at her thoughtfully. "How old is she?"
"Three," said Aunt Jane, "three—going on four."
"Good God!"
She nodded. "Yes, He's good. But somebody's got to look after Susie."
He waited a minute. Then he spoke, almost hesitatingly. "I don't suppose that money would do—any good?"
She shook her head. "I don't know what'll do good. Dr. Carmon's got to find out and do it. He generally does—when things get too bad."
There was a knock on the door.
"Your dinner, I guess," said Aunt Jane.
But it was Preston—with a box. When he saw Medfield's eyes he half retreated. Aunt Jane held out her hand.
"I'll take care of it," she said. She laid it on her lap. "Miss Canfield said you wasn't having 'em brought here any more.... I guess Preston made a mistake, maybe."
"I'guess' he did," replied Medfield. His eye was on the box, balefully.
Aunt Jane took it up and undid it slowly. When she looked in she smiled. She took out a black-edged card and handed it to him. "She's sent another one!"
He groaned softly.
"I don't know what we'll do—if they keepcoming in like this," she was fingering the blossoms tranquilly and looking at them.
He lay back on his pillows. "That's your affair!" He smiled more cheerfully. "You saidIshould not be bothered!" He closed his eyes.
"The Children's Ward is full," said Aunt Jane thoughtfully. "It's a regular flower-garden—every bed a posy-bed." She laughed comfortably and looked at him. "You'd ought to have seen the way they looked when they got your flowers. They were tickled most to death with 'em!"
"I am glad they enjoyed them," said Medfield tamely.
"I felt as if it was 'most a pity they couldn't know you sent 'em," she added.
He started a little and Aunt Jane put out a hand. "Don't you worry, Mr. Medfield. I didn't tell 'em. I just said it was a man—by the name of 'Herman'.... But maybe you'll get it, all the same."
He stared at her. "Get—it?"
She nodded. "They'll be thinking about that Mr. Herman—and kind of talking about him and loving him.... I reckon it'll dohim good—whoever he is." She was looking at 'Mr. Herman' in space, regarding him with kindly gaze.
Medfield smiled grimly. "I don't suppose you know what it is—not to want any one to know who you are?"
She looked at him. "I should hate terribly not to have folks know I'm Jane Holbrook!"
She was thoughtful a minute. "Seems as if it wouldn't beme—not more than half me—if folks didn't know I was Aunt Jane!" She was looking at him questioningly.
He shook his head.
"You've never been in my place." The words were dry.
"No.... I have a good many things to be thankful for," she added impersonally.
His eyes were looking at something before him and there was a little hard smile in their gaze. "Let some of them try it awhile," he said, as if answering an accusation. "Let them try!" He turned to her.
"I can't go in a street-car or a restaurant or a store in town—I can't walk along the street like other men—without being beset by people with axes to grind." He lookedat Aunt Jane as if he thought she might have an axe concealed somewhere about her person. "They carry them around with them in their pockets," he said savagely, "ready the minute they see me coming down the street. They line up with them and wait for me to appear. The minute a man hears my name, he doesn't think ofme—he's thinking what he can get out of me." His mouth set itself close. "I'm not aman—I'm money!"
Aunt Jane's look was full of twinkling sympathy that went out to him. "It's a pity you didn't think about that sooner, wasn't it?"
He stared.
"You might 'a' give away most of it—if you'd thought in time."
The stare broke. "You think it is easy, don't you?" he scoffed.
Her face grew sober. "No, I don't think it's easy.... Money seems to stick to folks' fingers—kind o' glues 'em together, I guess."
He rubbed his thin fingers absently and looked down at them.
"It seems to me I could find a way, but I suppose I should be just like the rest, if Ihad it—holding on to it for dear life!" She smiled at him.
He was silent a minute, looking before him. "Sometimes I think I would give every dollar I have in the world," he said slowly—"to have some one think of me apart from my money!" He looked at the face in its muslin cap. He knew he had never spoken to any one as he was speaking to Aunt Jane. He had a sense of freeing himself from something.
He watched the face in its cap.... "I don't suppose any one can understand—" He broke off with a sigh.
"Yes, I understand, I guess." She was looking down at the box of flowers in her lap. "We all have our besetting sins. I have 'em! I guess money's a kind of besetting sin!"
"If I felt the way you do, Mr. Medfield, I'd do something."
"What would you do?" He watched her face.
"Well—I'd find things." The face in its cap filled with little thoughts that came and went.... "Dear me! There's so many things, I wouldn't know which to do!"
"Suppose you tellmea few."
"Well—there's things.... Jimmie Sullivan needs a new leg, for one thing. He needs it the worst way——"
"Whois Jimmie Sullivan?" asked the millionaire.
"He's in the Children's Ward. Belongs to nobody—as you might say. We're kind of carrying him along till he gets on his feet."
"Gets on his legs, you mean?" His face had lost its fretted look; it was smiling a little.
"It's a frame leg he needs—one of the kind that lets out and stretches as he grows. Dr.Carmon's made him one—a sort of make-shift leg.... A good one costs two hundred and twenty-five dollars."
"Would you mind giving me a pencil and paper?" said Medfield.
Aunt Jane brought it from the table and he made a note.
"Two hundred and twenty-five, you said?"
She nodded. "If he don't have it—a good frame one—his leg will be the kind that flops all round.... I've seen beggars with 'em sometimes, selling pencils and so on. I can't hardly bear to see 'em that way!"
"I should think not! Horrible!"
"Then, there's Mrs. Pelton——"
"I don't seem to remember—Mrs. Pelton?" he said politely.
"Why she's the one you're—" Aunt Jane stopped suddenly.
"Yes?"
"She's a woman that came the same day you did," she said safely.
"Oh!" His mind seemed to be looking back—to the day when he came to the House of Mercy, perhaps.
Aunt Jane did not disturb him.
Presently he took up his pencil with a little sigh. "What were you saying about a Mrs. Pelton?" he asked.
"She came the day you did andshe'ssitting up! And her case was a good deal worse than yours." She was looking at him almost severely.
"But— She had her operation sooner—than I did!Ihad to wait—almost a week—You know I had to wait!" He was like a sick boy—with his excuses and his injured look.
"Yes—she was operated on—a day or two sooner—maybe. But she's acted better than you have, every way." She looked at him over her spectacles. "And she's a little mite of a thing. Don't come up to your shoulder hardly."
He smiled ruefully and took up the pencil. "I am going to try—— What about this Mrs. Pelton? What would you do for her if you were as badly off—as I am?"
She gave him a quick smile, out of her cap. "Why—I'd—I'd—I declare I don't know just what you coulddofor her! She's gotso much pluck, it 'most seems as if you couldn't do much.... But I can kind of see her—" She was looking at it. "I can see that if she had, maybe a hundred dollars, say—of her own, unexpected like—when she left the hospital—I can just see the things she would do with it! There's four of the children and a kind of fiddling husband—good, you know— But the way men are——"
"Yes, I know." His pencil was making absent notes. "What's his business?"
"She told me—he's a puddler. I don't know just what puddling is.... He works in a shop. You know, maybe, how they 'puddle'?"
"I've heard of puddling, yes."
"It's a respectable business, I guess. It sounds something the way he looks."
"The way he looks!"
She nodded. "'Puddler' makes me feel the way he does. It's a kind o' queer word."
He glanced at his paper. "Is there anything else you happen to think of for me to do?" The tone was dry, but a little amused.
"Well, there's folks—plenty of folks. You don't have to be in a hospital very long beforeyou begin to know about folks—and begin to wish you was made of money."
"It's a good place for me, then.... I may get cured all through!" He laughed a little harshly.
"I hope you will," said Aunt Jane. She was looking at him with a deep, big kindness that suddenly broke through the little crust of cynicism in his face. He leaned forward and held out his hand.
"Thank you," he said.
"I wonder what I'd better do with these." She looked at the flowers in the box in her lap. "They're about the prettiest ones she's sent you—forget-me-nots." She lifted a handful of the blossoms and held them out.
He regarded them cynically. "I'm not likely to forget!" he said.
She looked at him over the flowers and smiled. "Shedoesn't seem to forget either.... I guess she thinks a good deal of you," she added quaintly.
He shook his head. "You'd be wrong. She doesn't care any more for me than—that clothes-pole there!"
Aunt Jane looked at it uncritically.
"She sent those—" He motioned to the flowers, "to Herman Medfield's money! She began on the boy," he said scornfully. "She's a dozen years older than Julian and twice as clever. I packed him off to Europe when I found out—then she started in on the old man!"
Aunt Jane looked at him with interest. "I didn't know as you had a boy—how old is he?" she said quickly.
"Twenty-two," said Medfield.
"That's an interesting age, isn't it?" Aunt Jane was thoughtful. "That's just the age my boy would have been—if he'd lived. I'm always wondering what he would be doing now." She was silent a minute. Then she looked at him and smiled. "Europe isn't so very far off," she said.
She gathered up the flowers in her lap, and glanced toward the door.
Herman Medfield's dinner was being brought in.
Miss Canfield carried the big tray in both hands. Aunt Jane glanced at it and got up.
"I guess I'll give your flowers to Mrs. Pelton," she said slowly. "She doesn't happen to have any flowers. Nobody's sent her any—yet. She'll be real pleased with 'em."
She cast another glance at the tray. "They've brought you a good dinner to-day—beefsteak and onions and green peas."
From the door she looked back. "I'll tell her Mr. Herman sent them."
The nurse who was bending over Herman Medfield, tucking the napkin into his coat, saw a quick flush come in the thin face. She seemed not to notice it as she placed the tray before him.
"Shall I cut your meat?"
"Yes—please."
He watched the efficient fingers cut the juicy steak in strips and he glanced at the face bending above the tray. The reddish hair drawn trimly up under the cap and the look of competence in the face and in the firm hands.
She gave him the knife and fork and glanced at the tray. "You have everything you need? Here's your bell."
She placed the cord where he could reach it and turned away.
But Herman Medfield's look stayed her. "You didn't know my name was Herman, did you?" He said it with a little quizzical smile.
"I thought it was Medfield," replied the girl. She looked at him with clear, straight eyes. "The flowers come to Herman Medfield."
"That was a mistake," he said. "They got it wrong when I came—on the books—And it was in the papers, I suppose.... It's quite a joke that I should have had all Herman Medfield's flowers." He chuckled a little. "He's a distant relative of mine—Herman Medfield— But quite a different sort of man," he added quietly. "I don't see any salt here——"
She glanced quickly at the tray and went out to bring the salt.
He smiled at his dinner blandly and began to eat. He would get rid of the incubus of Herman Medfield's money for a while—and see how it felt.
His whole body relaxed as the weight of Herman Medfield went sliding from his shoulders.... No more suspicions, no more watching while people talked to him, for the inevitable money to crop up, or for some philanthropic scheme to put its hand in his pocket, on the sly.... They seemed to think, if a man had money, that he doted on orphan asylums and libraries and dormitories! He wished, fervently, that he might never hear of another college or foundation, or anysort of institution for doing good. He longed to be rid of it all. He wanted to be like other men—a human being—for a month, for six weeks.... He began to wonder how long a patient could stay in the Berkeley House of Mercy—how sick he had to be?... They shouldn't turn him outtoosoon. He could invent an ache or two. He would take a long vacation from his money.
Miss Canfield brought the salt. She looked at his face as she put it down. "You're feeling better, aren't you?" she said.
He relaxed the cheerful look. "A little better," he admitted. "Some pain still."
She smiled. It was only in the Children's Ward that they were glad to let the pains go—that they ignored them or forgot them as quickly as they could.... Men were all alike—men and women were the same in cherishing their pains and the memory of their pains—women a little more reluctant than men, perhaps, to see them go. Men were more like children.
This gray-haired man, eating his dinner happily, was a little like a child, she thought as she watched him. He seemed to havegrown younger—even in a day.... It was curious they should have got his name wrong on the books.... It was probably because of the aristocratic look. He was a very stately figure, leaning back there against the pillows, in his embroidered Chinese coat, with his gray hair and little pointed beard.... She turned to go.
"Won't you sit down? Can't you stay?" said Medfield politely.
"There's another patient waiting. They've put me on double special since you are better." She nodded to him and went out.
He watched her go, almost regretfully. It was wonderful what a difference it made, wanting to have people around—now that money could not get between.... He would have liked to talk with the girl. Ask her about her family and how she came to be a nurse. He wondered what sort of a home a girl like that had come out of, and what she expected to do.
More than once, as he had watched her moving about the room, absorbed in her work, he had thought of Julian.... It occurred to him to wonder what Julian wouldbe like now. He had not seen the boy for two years—not since he sent him off to Europe. He glanced a little resentfully at the black-edged card lying on the stand beside him.... If it had not been for Julia Cawein and her airs and fascinations, the boy would be here now.
His thought recurred to the girl who had just left him. He had never seen any one work just the way she worked—as if she loved it. She moved quietly and easily, as if there were plenty of time to do all that must be done in the day.... She would make a good wife for some man.... And it suddenly struck him that a rich young fellow would be lucky to marry a girl like that.... He wondered when Julian would be coming home.
He had finished his dinner and pushed aside the tray. He wondered where Julian was—whether he had got his letter and whether he would care—a little.... It was ten days now since he sent the letter—just before the doctor told him ... that was the day Aunt Jane took charge of his case.
He smiled a little, thinking of Aunt Jane and her ways.... Since she took him in hand, he had eaten and breathed and slept only as she permitted.... But, after all, it was a relief to get rid of thinking and do what one was told—like a boy.... He wished his own boy were here—to play with.... He found his imagination always coming back to Julian. He had hardly thought of the boy before as an individual; he had been a responsibility—some one to be kept out of scrapes—and, in a vague way, he wasthe successor to the Medfield fortune and business.... Now he wondered what the boy was really like.... Two years might have changed him—body and soul almost.
He closed his eyes a little wearily, and rested back against the pillows. The room was quiet and filled with sunshine. He felt suddenly at home in it—as he had never felt at home in his own house across the town.... The rooms were very lonely there.... He rested quietly.
A knock came on the door—perhaps the nurse for the tray. He did not turn his head or open his eyes. He was resting in the quiet.
A light step crossed the room and stopped—and presently Herman Medfield looked up.
The boy was smiling down at him. "Hallo, Father!"
He put up a swift hand to brush the vision away.
And the boy took it, and bent down and kissed him, almost shyly.
Then Herman Medfield reached out both hands. "Why—Julian! I was thinking about you!" He threw his arms aroundhim hungrily. "I was wishing you would come!"
"Were you?" The young man laughed happily and drew up a chair to the bed. "I'm just in time, then."
He sat looking at his father; and it came to Herman Medfield that the boy was fond of him. There was a look in the clear eyes of affection and pride.
He gazed at it. "You didn't get my letter?"
"Which? The one with the check for three thousand?"
"The one telling you I was—here."
The boy shook his head. "I got Ballantine's cable, and took the next boat."
"I didn't know Ballantine cabled," said Medfield thoughtfully.
"It came ten days ago—the thirtieth, wasn't it—just as I was starting for Norway. I'm pretty glad it didn't miss me!"—They sat quiet a minute. Then the boy looked at him. "You're looking fine, sir!"
"I'm all right! Doing splendidly!"
He felt suddenly that he could let his pains go. The house across the town was not soempty, after all. He had a sudden vision of Julian running up the long stairs—two at a time—and he looked at him happily.
The boy leaned forward. His eye fell on the black-edged card; he looked at it and smiled and half reached out a hand, incredulous.
"How is—" He hesitated. He had always been afraid of his father. But the man on the pillows was, somehow, a different sort of father; he leaned forward with a swift twinkle at the card.
"How is the—widow?" he asked.
"Very well, I suppose," said Medfield. "It is some time since I saw her." He spoke a little formally. But his heart leaped at the touch of comradeship.
"How about this?" said Julian. He touched the black-edged card.
Herman Medfield's face flushed—almost guiltily. "Flowers," he said.
"I say!" The boy whistled softly. Then he laughed. "I say!" He put down the card and looked at it.
"Three boxes!" acknowledged Medfield.
The boy held out his hand. "Would you mind shaking hands, sir?"
Herman Medfield took the hand, laughing a little, and his eyes filled with quiet pride and happiness. "I am glad you've come home, Julian."
"Looks to me about time!" said the youth. He glanced again at the card and chuckled.
Then he stood up.
It was Miss Canfield for the tray.
She came around to the other side of the bed; and Herman Medfield looked up at her—and glanced from her to his boy.
"This is my son, Julian, Miss Canfield." He was watching the two faces that confronted each other across the bed.
The young man's had lighted with a little look of admiration.
He held out his hand across the bed. "It's a long-distance introduction, isn't it?"
The girl took the hand quietly. "How do you do, Mr. Herman," she said pleasantly.
"I'm glad to meet you," said Julian out of a puzzled look; and the two hands fell apart.
Herman Medfield flashed a twinkle at her. "His name is not Herman," he remarked dryly. "Nor mine," he added after a minute."'Herman' is for the hospital— Aunt Jane invented it."
"I see." The girl held it. "I wondered a little——"
"Don't let anybody else wonder," said Medfield. "I want to get rid of myself—for a while."
The young man smiled whimsically. "Where do I come in, sir?"
"You stay where you are," said his father tolerantly. "You're well enough as it is—if you behave!" He was looking with satisfaction from his son to the young girl. She had turned to the tray and her fingers were busy with the dishes.
"She takes good care of me," said Medfield, with a little gesture toward the competent fingers.
"I don't doubt it, sir.... I might almost say I wouldn't mind being ill—myself!" A kind of shyness in the words redeemed them and the girl smiled.
"People who are not ill, generally think they wouldn't mind," she said quietly.
She lifted the tray and set it aside.
"I'll take out your pillows now. It's timefor you to rest." She removed the pillows and shook them a little and placed the fresh one beneath his head and straightened the clothes for him, with her firm, competent, comfortable hands.
The boy's eyes followed the white figure as it left the room, carrying the tray lightly. They came back to his father's face.
"I think I've had my orders," he said laughingly. "I'm to go now, I understand. I'll be back by and by, sir—when you are 'rested.'" He hesitated a minute. Then he bent down and kissed his father, almost shyly, and left the room.
The door closed behind him and Herman Medfield fell asleep and dreamed—"as if he really cared," thought Herman Medfield, as he drifted away into sleep.
In Room 5, Mrs. Pelton was sitting in a big rocking-chair by the window, her feet on a hassock and her eyes fixed on the great bowl of blue forget-me-nots on the table beside her.
She had been looking at the forget-me-nots ever since Aunt Jane appeared with the big box, just before dinner.... She could hardly eat her dinner for looking at them. She had had the bowl of flowers set on her tray—where they crowded the soup and vegetables, and made her happy.... She wished John could see them, and the children could see them—or that there was somebody she could divide with. The beauty of the forget-me-nots was too much for her. It was such a great bunch—it filled the bowl and overflowed the sides. She had never seen so many forget-me-nots in one bunch!... Now and then, sitting in the big chair, she reached out a hand to them and touched the flowers delicately.She wished she were bigger—the happiness of the flowers crowded on her. Perhaps if she were bigger, she could enjoy them more.
Aunt Jane had not seemed overcome by the flowers when she brought them in. She had taken them from the box and shaken them apart with brisk fingers and arranged them in the bowl and moved the stand over by the window close to Mrs. Pelton's chair.
"There!" she had said. "Makes you quite a nice bunch, don't it!" She stood off and admired them.... Mrs. Pelton was thinking now of Aunt Jane, and she was thinking that she did not even know who had sent them—"A man by the name of Herman," Aunt Jane had said.
Mrs. Pelton had gone over in her mind all the people she had ever known—but there were no Hermans that she knew, or that John knew. It seemed very strange for any one to send a great bunch of flowers to her—any one she didn't know!
She wished she could thank him. She wished Mamie could see them. Mamie loved flowers so. She looked at the flowersand thought of Mamie and the children and John—and her face was happy. She looked at the row of photographs ranged along the bureau in front of the mirror.... It had been such a comfortable time at the hospital. And she had dreaded it so before she came! And there wasn't anything to dread. Somehow, it was a beautiful place.... And there was the man who was going to pay for her being here.... She had gone over and over it, in her mind—his paying for her—wondering about it.... They had worried, she and John, and they had turned and twisted every penny, and after all there was not enough.... But of course she had to come. The doctor had said it wouldn't do to put it off; and so she had come, worried and anxious about it all—and right in the room next to her, while she waited—was the man who had offered to pay everything.... It was a beautiful place—with such a good man in it—and Aunt Jane, always doing something for her—and the forget-me-nots. She sighed happily, her eyes on the flowers.
Aunt Jane appeared in the doorway, and surveyed her shrewdly. "Tired?" she asked.
"Not a bit." Mrs. Pelton shook her head. "I don't feel as if I could ever be tired any more."
She was dressed in a long blue garment—one of Aunt Jane's wrappers—that enveloped her from head to foot. Her parted hair, smooth and shining, was combed close to her head and she looked very small in the big rocking-chair, but resolute and brave.
Aunt Jane regarded her mildly. "I reckon you'll get around to being tired, after a while—like the rest of us." She glanced at the bowl of forget-me-nots. "You enjoy your flowers, don't you!"
"They make me 'mosttoohappy—they're so beautiful!"
"I guess they won't hurt," said Aunt Jane. "Being happy don't hurt—though sometimes it feels as if it hurt," she added thoughtfully. "—as you just couldn't hold any more."
"Yes. That's it! That's the way I feel!" The little woman spoke eagerly and sat up.
"I've been thinking—" she waited a minute, looking at the flowers. "Maybe I ought to go in the ward. I always meant to go in the ward, you know."
Aunt Jane regarded her. "You like it here, don't you?"
"I like it—yes!" She looked about her with grateful eyes—at the photographs and flowers and then at Aunt Jane's face. "It's beautiful!" she said softly.
"Well, I don't know as it's so beautiful." Aunt Jane was looking thoughtfully before her. She was thinking of Suite A, perhaps. "It's a good, comfortable room and you get a little sun—along toward sunset." She glanced at the window, where the streak of sunshine was creeping in on the sill, and a little glow came from the sky. "It's a comfortable room—yes."
"The ward would be cheaper," said the woman. She hesitated. "It don't seem quite fair to him—the man that's paying, I mean—not to get along as cheap as we can."
"I wouldn't worry about getting along cheap," said Aunt Jane. "Some folks need one thing, and some another. Whatyouneed is to keep still a spell and rest.... You don't feel lonesome, do you?"
"Lonesome! Oh, no!" She gave a little sigh. Her thin hands were clasped in her lap. "It is sogoodto be quiet!" she said.
"I thought likely," Aunt Jane nodded. "You just sit still and enjoy your quiet and get well ... you don't need to worry about the man that's going to pay. He wouldn't want you to worry. He's comfortable and he'd wantyouto be comfortable.He'sgot a good room."
The woman's eyes brooded on it. "I can't thank him, or do anything," she said a little wistfully. "I'd like to have him know how we feel about his doing it."
"Well, you can thank him by and by, when you get round to it—if you want to," said Aunt Jane. "I guess he'll let you thank him. You want to get well first."
"Yes." Her eyes were on the forget-me-nots and she reached out a hand to them. "I might send him some of my flowers," she said eagerly.
Aunt Jane's face wrinkled at the forget-me-nots—a little perplexed and surprised and amused look.
"Icouldsend them to him, couldn't I? It would be proper to send them to him?"
"Yes—I guess it's proper," said Aunt Jane dryly. "I don't believe he's got any flowers in his room." Her eyes twinkled.
"I'll send them to him now—right off! You pick out a nice bunch for him." She reached to them with a happy gesture.
Aunt Jane bent over the forget-me-nots, her smile full of gentle chuckles. "We'll make him a nice bunch," she said cheerfully. She selected a few meagre blossoms here and there.
"You're not getting the best ones!" The little woman was excited and eager. "They're better on this side. See—there's one—and there!" Her face had the soft, clear color of happiness.
Aunt Jane drew out the flowers with half-reluctant touch and arranged them slowly. "Seems 'most too bad to spoil your bunch," she said.
"Oh, I like it!" The woman laughed a little tremulously. "I told you it kind of hurt me to have so many, and it's a way of thanking him, isn't it? Here, take this one!"
Her eyes were shining. "Don't they look nice! You tell him I thank him, please, and I hope he's doing well."
"I'll tell him," said Aunt Jane. Her eyesrested on the flowers. "I shouldn't wonder if he'd be real pleased with them." She held them off and surveyed them thoughtfully. "I'll tell him what you said and I guess maybe he'll get a good deal of comfort out of it. He needs flowers—and some one to think about him—as much as anybody ever I see."
Aunt Jane came in, bearing the forget-me-nots before her.
The millionaire raised a hand. "Take them a——!"
But she came tranquilly on.
"They were sent to you—special." She held them out.
He scowled at them. Then his look broke to bewilderment and a little amusement.
"They're the ones you carried off!" he exclaimed.
"The same ones," replied Aunt Jane with satisfaction. "A woman sent them to you."
"I know who sent them!"
"You don't know this one—it's a Mrs. Pelton."
He stared at her. "The one I sent them to—the one you took them to?"
She nodded. "She's sent 'em back."
"Didn't she like them?" His tone was hurt—almost stiff.
"Oh, sheliked'em. She said they made her 'mosttoohappy." Aunt Jane was arranging the flowers and smiling at them. "She only sent part of them you see. She's divided with you."
"I see!" He looked at the flowers vaguely.
"She didn't know it was you that sent them," said Aunt Jane. She stood off to get the effect.
"Who did she think sent them?" he demanded.
"Why—'Mr. Herman,' I told her.... You know about Mr. Herman?" She looked at him.
"Yes," meekly.
"I told her about him. So she's feeling thankful to him." Her eyes twinkled a little.
"But why should she send flowers tome?" He looked at her almost suspiciously, as if he had caught her.
Aunt Jane shook her head reprovingly. "She sent them to you because you happened to come the same day she did. She saw you through the door whilst she was waiting for me to come in, and it made herfeel acquainted with you, coming the same day—so—and both having suffering to go through with—— There, they look nice, don't they!" She gave a final touch to them and sat down.
He glanced at them grudgingly.
"I'll take them out if you say so—if you'd rather not have them?"
"No, leave them.... I—want them." The words came almost quickly.
"I thought you'd like them," she said placidly, "when you'd made up your mind to it. It's hard for any one to make up his mind sometimes."
The millionaire was looking at the flowers. "I've been thinking about what you told me this morning," he motioned to the bowl of forget-me-nots, "—about Mrs. Pelton.... This hospital business must be a big bill for a workingman to meet.... I was wondering if it couldn't be arranged so that I could pay—without their knowing, of course," he added hastily.
Aunt Jane was silent a minute. Then, a little guiltily, she looked at him. "Youhavepaid already," she said.
He had been looking dreamily before him, pleased with Aunt Jane, and with the flowers—and with himself—pleased with everybody. He moved irritably and stared.
She nodded, the little wrinkles gathering about her eyes. "I didn't mean that you should find it out—not right off.... But it's just as well, I guess."
"What do you mean?"
"Well." She rocked a little. "She was kind of anxious—the day she came, you know.... I see, as soon as I came into the room that she was worrying—" Aunt Jane rocked placidly, looking back to Mrs. Pelton's worrying face. "Pretty soon it came out—they hadn't got the money; and she'd been just drove to come—as you might say—Dr. Carmon makes 'em come whether they want to or not, you know?" She looked at him inquiringly over her glasses.
"Yes, I know." The words were remote and dry.
Aunt Jane smiled a little. "And just then I caught sight of you through the door, and your coat lying on a chair—it was a silk-lined coat, you know—your clothes are allpretty good." She looked at him with satisfaction.
A glint of amusement crossed the remote face.
"So it came to me, then and there, just the way the things do—the right ones, when you're bothering—and I said to her thatyouwere going to pay for her."
She sat looking at him.
"Well?"
She roused herself. "You never see anybody change so—right in a minute, that way.... I do wish you could have seen her!" She gave a pitying glance at the handsome figure on the pillow.... "It seems a pity, 'most, to do so much for everybody and not have the good of seeing it!"
"How do you know I will pay the bill?" asked the millionaire grimly.
She turned and stared—and a little gleaming smile twinkled at him. "Why—youhavepaid already! Leastways, your lawyer's paid. He sends a check every week—the way you told him—to pay the bill; and I've made it out big enough for two, right along." Her face was complacent and kind.
"Do you call that business?" He asked it almost sharply.
"No—not business—just good sense, I guess—and decency."
"I call it crooked dealing!" said the millionaire. Something of the old, gripping look came into the shapely hands lying on the bed.
Aunt Jane surveyed him and rocked on. "How much do you reckon your life is worth, Mr. Medfield?" she said after a little pause.
"I'm insured for—" He stopped.
She nodded. "That wasn't what I meant—but it will do. Whatever you're insured for—you're worth it, I guess." She paused and regarded him doubtfully.... "You're probably worth as much as you are insured for—" Her look considered it, and let it go.... "Whatever it is, we've saved it for you—among us. We've given you the best care we knew how.... You've had good care, haven't you?" She bent a solicitous look on him.
"The best of care," he said courteously. Then, after a minute: "Money could not pay for it—the kind of care you have given.... I have not forgotten the night—when I went down into the dark—and you held me." Hewas looking at something deep and quiet—then his gaze turned to her.
Aunt Jane returned it a minute—and looked away.... There was something in the face of the millionaire that she had not seen in it before. She got up and went to the window. "Looks as if it would be a good day to-morrow," she murmured.
She straightened the curtains a little and shook them out and came leisurely back. She glanced at the forget-me-nots.
"What I meant was," she said slowly, "some folks get big bills when they're here—and some folks get little ones, and some don't get any. It depends on what the Lord has given 'em; and we mean to take good care of 'em all."
He smiled. "Well—the Lord has given me plenty. I ought not to complain!"
"I didn't expect you would complain," said Aunt Jane. "I put it in the bill under Suite A—enough for two. And I told Dr. Carmon to makehisbill big enough for two—I guess he'll do it. He's a pretty sensible man." She rocked placidly.
Herman Medfield relaxed a little and looked at her whimsically. "It's a human way todo," he said thoughtfully. "And I do getsomethingfor my money. This is a pleasant room."
"It's pleasant enough. But I've thought a good many times it's a pity you can't be in the ward."
"Me—in a ward!"
She nodded. "You're lonesome, aren't you?"
He looked at her with sudden thought. "You didn't know my boy has come!" he said.
Aunt Jane stopped. "Your boy?"
"My boy—Julian! I told you!"
"You said Julian was in Europe—" replied Aunt Jane.
"He came this morning!" The millionaire's voice laughed. "Walked right in through that door—without a word!" He nodded to it—as if still seeing the boy coming toward him.
Aunt Jane looked at the door and then at the man's face, and smiled.
"I told you Europe wasn't so very far off," she said. "But I didn't know it wasquiteso near you as that!"