Herman Medfield, wrapped in a dark-blue quilted gown, was sitting in the sunny window that looked down into the back yards.... He remembered the day—only three weeks ago, was it—that he had watched the servant-girl hanging sheets on the line. He remembered how strong her arms were as she swung the sheets on the line.... He looked down into the yard. She was there now—singing just as she had then; the window was open and her voice came drifting in with the scent of the flowers that grew down by the fence.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was tired; more tired than he had thought he should be. Sitting in bed, he had felt strong—almost well. And he had demanded his clothes.
"We'll let you wear a dressing-gown the first day or two," Aunt Jane had said with atwinkle. "You've got a real pretty silk one, I see."
So she had brought out the quilted gown and laid it on the bed; and he had dressed slowly and come out here to the sunny sitting-room, where the big chair was drawn up in the window.
He had looked down into the yard, with a feeling of strangeness and newness, and had wondered a little whether it was the change in the foliage that made the yard look different, or whether the change was in Herman Medfield's eyes.
Then he had closed his eyes and leaned back.... Perhaps he had slept a little—with the fresh air coming in and the girl's voice singing and the sound of doves cooing from a roof near by—for when he opened his eyes again, Julian was sitting at the desk, writing.
He looked up and encountered his father's gaze and came over to the window.
"How are you feeling, Dad?"
"First-rate. It seems good to get on my legs again." He was looking eagerly at the boy, taking in his fresh young strength....It had been several days since Julian came; but Herman Medfield was not yet used to his being there, or to the little proud feeling that came over him as he looked at this young man who was his son. He had never thought Julian was handsome. But something seemed to have happened to him.... He carried himself more like a man; and there was a look behind the lines of his face.... He thought of the boy's mother, as he watched it.... Europe had brought out the best that was in him. It had been a wise move—sending him off like that, to get him out of Mrs. Cawein's way.... And then it came to him that Julian was looking even better than the day he arrived.... Perhaps, after all, he was fond of his old dad! They had had many talks together—and had sat silent for long spaces of quiet; and the boy came and went as if his father's room were home to him. Every one in the hospital had come to know the quick step and light figure and the laugh that ran through the hall.... He went across the town to the vacant house to sleep. But his meals were served with his father's—when he could persuade Aunt Janeto send them in—and when he could not coax her to send in the extra tray, he went to a restaurant near by.
Aunt Jane and he had been friends from the minute he held out his hand to her, and she had taken it in hers and patted it and looked at him out of her muslin cap. "You're just the age of my boy," she had said, looking at him. "I always wonder what he'd be doing now—if I could see him."
And the young man had reached up an arm—before she could catch the meaning of his look—and thrown it around her neck and kissed her, just under the muslin border of her cap. "I guess that's what he would do first," he said. And Aunt Jane's eyes had filled with quick tears as she turned away.
"That's great foolishness!" she had said softly.
But the boy had won his place; and he was always asking for her when he came. She appeared now in the doorway with a card in her hand—looking at it doubtfully. Her glance ran to the figure in the window in its stately dressing-gown, and returned again to the little black-edged card.
The young man's eye fell on it and his eyebrows lifted a trifle. He came over.
"For me?" He held out his hand.
She ignored the hand and passed on to the millionaire, extending the card. Her face was impersonal and severe.
The boy's quick laugh broke across it.
"Caught, Dad!" he chuckled, looking at the card.
The millionaire glanced down and his face darkened.
"Tell her I cannot—" He stopped abruptly— Suppose she had heard that the boy was home! His father's room was the best place for him—and for her to see him! He sighed and laid down the card.
"Very well. Tell her to come in."
The young man watched her go, and laughed out and then chuckled softly; his father smiled grimly.
The door opened and the widow entered. She was dark, with a white throat and white hands and bewildering bits of jet that twinkled as she moved. They tinkled softly as she came in.
Aunt Jane, following discreetly, closed thedoor behind her and went to a table across the room.
The widow stood looking at the two men with a charming smile.
Julian came forward. "How do you do, Mrs. Cawein?" he was holding out his hand and smiling.
"How-de-do, Julie!" She touched the hand lightly and fluttered by him toward the chair in the window— "And how is the dear man!" she cried.
Julian, the little smile still on his lips, watched the comedy. Aunt Jane from across the room regarded it mildly.
The millionaire half rose as if warding off something——
But the dark lady only pressed his hand as it reached out; she lighted on a chair near by and twinkled a little and shone beamingly on him.
Herman Medfield sank back in his chair.
"It's so good to see you!" she exclaimed softly. "And do you know I might have missed you altogether!" She had clasped her hands and was looking at him reproachfully.
"There was a nurse person met me in thehall, and she said you were not here—that it was all a mistake in the name!" She spread her hands dramatically; the jets twinkled fast like little eyes all over her.... "She said you weren't here—that they'd got the wrong name!... Thenthisgood woman—" The little jewels on her hands glinted at Aunt Jane lightly. "This good woman met me—or I shouldn't have got in at all!"
Herman Medfield cast a glance of due appreciation at "this good woman." Her face was expressionless and cheerful; she was regarding the widow with uncritical eyes.
"It was very good in her, I am sure," murmured Herman Medfield.
"Wasn't it!... I've quite been dying to see you, you know!" She leaned toward him a little and sparkled for him.
"I think I must have been dying to see you," responded the millionaire politely. "Though they told me I was doing very well." He said it reflectively, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her.
The boy watched the play with amused eyes. He had no idea his father could be so courtly with women.
The visitor bridled to it and used her eyes. "It's a mercy you're better! Think of the interests you represent!"
"I try not to think of them," said Medfield dryly.
"Of course!— You must not!" She quite cried out about it.
Then she turned to Julian. "And where have you been—naughty boy?"
The young man blushed and stammered. She had not held him at finger ends the last time he saw her.
"I've been—beeneverywhere!" he said with a laugh.
Aunt Jane had slipped quietly into the next room and through the doorway her ample figure could be seen shaking up pillows and moving softly about. The widow's eyes followed the figure reflectively and watched it disappear through a door that led into the corridor.
"Julian—dear——"
The boy jumped a little.
She was speaking over her shoulder to him and she leaned back smilingly. "Would you mind, Julian, getting my bag for me? I left it in the car— So stupid of me!"
"With pleasure." The young man went toward the door. He glanced casually as he passed her at the chair she sat so airily upon.
There was a little smile on his lips as he closed the door.
The widow's eyes followed him. "He is a dear boy," she said, with a motherly glance at the softly closing door.
Then her look changed and she leaned forward and touched the bowl of forget-me-nots with lightest finger-tip.
"Mine?" she said archly.
"If you would like them," said the millionaire graciously.
"Naughty man!" She shook the finger at him and then pointed it at the forget-me-nots.
"Who sent them to you?" Her chin tilted the question.
He regarded it gravely. "A woman sent them," he said.
She nodded and the little jets dingled at him.
"This woman?" She placed the finger on her chest and looked at him reproachfully.
The millionaire's look broke in startled confusion. He glanced swiftly at the flowers. "Why—yes—of course!... I ought to have thanked you.... But—I have not been well, you know." He smiled whimsically.
She motioned it aside. "I don't mind being thanked—so long as you got them!" Her eyes travelled about the room. "They are the only ones you have!" she said reflectively.
The millionaire's glance followed hers.
"There were—others," he said vaguely.
"But you have not kept them!" She leaned forward.
"No." He admitted it.
"These are the only ones—" she paused, looking at them pensively. "You don't know how happy you make me!" she said—and sighed it away.
"I am glad to have pleased you," responded the millionaire feebly.
"You don't know—" she touched the flowers as if they were something precious that must not be disturbed. "You—don't know how happy—you make me!"
The millionaire glanced uneasily about.
The door opened and Julian flashed in. "I say! I couldn't find your bag, you know!"
"Never mind!" She was sweet with it. "Perhaps I didn't bring it, after all."
"You don't think it is possibly—in your chair," he suggested, smiling a little.
He had come over and was standing quite close to her.
She glanced at him deprecatingly. "How clever in you, Julian!"
Her hand groped in the chair for the bag and found it—and she held it out, laughing at her mistake.
The two men smiled.
"So stupid—in me!" She took out a tiny handkerchief and shook it and the faintest scent of violets flew about the room.
The door opened. It was Miss Canfield, with a glass of water on a small round tray. She came across to the millionaire. "It is medicine time," she said quietly.
The millionaire drank it off and returned the glass to the tray and thanked her.
She looked down at him. "Is there anything else—you would like?" There was a clear, faint color in her cheeks, like a rose-leaf.
The widow's eye rested on it.
"Nothing, thank you," said Medfield.
"You have sat up a little longer than the doctor said— You must not get too tired."
She left the room, carrying the little tray lightly before her, moving with noiseless step.
Three pairs of eyes watched her from the room.
"They take good care of you, don't they?" said Mrs. Cawein patronizingly. Her eyes were still reflectively on the door.
"The best of care!" responded Medfield.
"Well—" she sighed brightly and shook the handkerchief. "I think I was told to go?" She nodded archly. "Yes—she told me!— I feel sure of it!"
She got up. "You must get well fast!" Her hand touched his lightly and whisked away, and the violet scent was wafted about him.
She moved toward the door, drawing Julian into her wake.
Herman Medfield's eyes watched them. His lips grew a little compressed. "You have forgotten your hat, Julian," he said sharply.
The boy glanced back over his shoulder and flashed a smile at him. "I'm seeing Mrs. Cawein to her car. I'll be back in a minute, sir——"
She murmured deprecation as they went. "You really—do not need to come with me, Julian."
"But I want to," said the young man. He shifted his feet quickly and caught step with her as she plumed along beside him.
"Your father's looking very well!" she said.
"Isn't he!" The reply was absent.
She glanced at him sharply. "You must come and see me—I have missed you!"
His eye went past her to the car that was waiting. "It is very kind in you," he murmured.
She tripped a little on the step and he caught her arm to save her.
She glowed to him. "Be sure to come," she said softly. "We must take up old times."
Julian looked at her and smiled ever so faintly.
He opened the door of the car and put her in and bowed ceremoniously and closed thedoor. She nodded brightly through the window.... The car rolled away.
He stood looking after it, smiling with a little amusement. Then he ran lightly up the steps.
The long corridor lighted by a great window stretched before him, and a figure at the end was outlined against it—a slender figure that carried itself very light and straight. She was walking from him, her face toward the window, and the white uniform and the cap glowed softly.... The reddish hair under the cap caught little glints of light. He watched till the figure disappeared in the distance. Then he turned to the door of Suite A.
The light of the reddish, shining hair was still in his face as he came in.
Medfield grunted and stirred a little in his chair. He glanced at the absorbed face.
"You find her attractive?" he said dryly.
The young man stared at him. He had forgotten Julia Cawein and her car; he had forgotten everything except the window of the long lighted hall and the girl's head lifted against it.
"I think she is charming!" he cried.
"Don't you?" he added after a little, uncomfortable pause.
"No," said his father shortly.
"What is the matter with her?" asked the boy. He was watching his father's face.
"Nothing is the matter if you don't happen to see it."
"I don't!"
The man was silent a minute. "Sherwood Cawein died of a broken heart," he said at last.
The boy stared. Then the look in his face broke and danced. "I was not thinking of Mrs. Cawein," he said quietly.
"You were not speaking of Julia Cawein?" His father sat up, his hands on the arms of his chair, and looked at him.
"No, I was not thinking of Mrs. Cawein. I'll tell you some day, Father, what I was thinking of. But—" he looked at him straight. "I'd like you to trust me a little if you will, please."
"I'm not going to bed!" said Medfield irritably. "I don't want to lie down. I'm tired of lying down!" He looked out of the window and scowled.
The nurse was silent a minute, regarding him thoughtfully. Then she laid a light, cool hand on his wrist and her fingers found the pulse and held it.
"There's nothing the matter!" he said crossly.
"No, there doesn't seem to be." She released his wrist and went quietly out.
The millionaire's eyes followed her.... A shrewd flash came into them. The little annoyance had left his face; it had the keen, concentrated look that men who knew Herman Medfield did not care to see on his face—if they had business with him. It was the look that meant he was on the track of something or somebody.
He reached out to the bell.
Miss Canfield came. She waited with an inquiring look.
"I should like to see Mrs. Holbrook," said Medfield politely.
"Aunt Jane?" The nurse hesitated. "She's in the Children's Ward. Is it something that can wait—or something I can do for you, sir?" Her face was troubled.
He smiled at her reassuringly. "I want to see Aunt Jane— She will come, I think—if you tell her." He settled back comfortably in his chair and waited.
He did not look up when Aunt Jane came in. His head rested against the chair and his face was drawn in the look of pathetic distress and helplessness that calls for pity.
Aunt Jane took in the look with kindly glance.
"You've been having too much company," she said.
"I do feel rather done up," admitted Medfield weakly.
"Well, you better go right to bed—" Aunt Jane moved toward the door of the adjoining room.
"I'm not going to bed," said Medfield.
Aunt Jane stood arrested——
"I want the doctor," added Medfield warily.
"I'll send for him—soon as you get in," she said placidly. "You come right along."
"No." He put his hands on the arms of the chair and looked at her like a spoiled child.
Aunt Jane regarded him calmly. She went into the corridor and sent word for Miss Canfield to come to her office. Then she went on to the office and took up the receiver and called Dr. Carmon's number; and stood waiting, with bent head, her cap strings reflective.
The head lifted itself—and her face focussed to the little black cup on the desk before her.
"It's about Mr. Medfield—Herman G. Medfield—yes." She said it severely into the blackness. "He won't do as he's told!"
Her ear listened. "Well, that's all right. But you'll have to come.... No, I don't know. He's cross—for one thing!... In half an hour, you say?... Well, that will do, I guess—I can handle him that long."She smiled and hung up the receiver and turned to Miss Canfield and looked at her through her glasses.
"What is the matter with him?" she asked.
The nurse shook her head. "He was all right until half an hour ago. I took him his medicine then," she replied.
"It's the widow!" said Aunt Jane.
Miss Canfield glanced at her inquiringly. "The one who was——?"
"Visiting him—yes. You saw her?"
Miss Canfield smiled. "Yes."
Aunt Jane nodded. "She's done it, somehow." Her face grew reflective. "I hadn't ought to have let her in," she said softly. "You had more sense than I did about that."
"I wondered a little why you did it," said Miss Canfield safely.
"Well—" Aunt Jane considered. "I thought maybe he needed stirring up a little—so he would get along faster. I didn't mean to stir him up quite so much," she added reflectively. "I didn't know he'd act like this.... He's always making a fuss!" she added disapprovingly.
Miss Canfield's face grew defensive. She turned it away. "I had thought he was a very good patient," she said quietly.
Aunt Jane's glance flashed at her. The muslin cap covered a question. "I don't know as he's any better than any other patient," she said, watching her critically.... "He ought to be good—with his Suite—and everybody running and waiting on him all the time!"
A bell tinkled and buzzed on the board in the hall.
Aunt Jane's cap turned toward it. "That's him now, I suppose, wanting something!"
The nurse went to the board and scanned it. She reached up and threw off the number and turned down the hall toward Suite A.
Aunt Jane's gaze followed her reflectively. Then she turned to her desk. When Dr. Carmon arrived she was sitting quietly at work on her books.
"What's up?" he said brusquely as he came in.
"I hope you'll find out," said Aunt Jane. Her tone was tranquil.
He shrugged his shoulders and removed hiscoat—throwing it carelessly across a chair. He took up his little black bag.
Aunt Jane regarded the coat disapprovingly. She went across and shook it out and laid it in neat folds.
"I think likely—it's a woman," she said, smoothing the coat.
He stopped abruptly and looked at her. "Anybody been here?"
"Yes—a widow."
The doctor grunted a little. "Who let her in?"
"Well—I don'tknowthat she upset him," said Aunt Jane. "Something did! You can find out, I guess." Her gaze was approvingly mild.
He relaxed a little.
"You want I should come with you?" she asked.
"No," hastily, "I'll send for you—if I need anything. Miss Canfield's around, I suppose."
"Yes, she's there, I guess. She's there most of the time," said Aunt Jane. Her face was non-committal.
But he glanced at it sharply. Then he went down to Suite A.
Herman Medfield, still sitting in his window, with the blue quilted gown wrapped about his legs, wore an unhappy expression.
Dr. Carmon scanned it. He set down the black bag and drew up a chair.
"What seems to be the matter?" he asked. He seated himself firmly in the chair and looked at his patient through keen glasses. All the little fine unconscious fibres that diagnosed a case for Dr. Carmon were alert and reaching out for signs; but the doctor himself looked as impassive as a stone jug, sitting in his chair, a hand on either knee—surveying Herman Medfield.
"What is the matter?" he said.
"I don't know." Medfield's tone was indifferent. "I feel worse—general distress—heaviness."
"Any pain?" The doctor's hand burrowing in his pocket had brought out the stethoscope.
He adjusted it to his ears and hitched his chair a little nearer. Medfield made an obliging movement forward.
"Stay where you are," said the doctorgruffly. He leaned forward and placed the little metal disks on the blue quilted gown and bent his head.
The two men were silent. Medfield with his head against the back of the chair and his eyes closed was wondering guiltily what the two little flexible tubes were revealing to the listening ears.
And Dr. Carmon, behind an impenetrable scowling mask, was wondering what the devil had gone wrong with Herman Medfield. And he listened—not so much with his ears, as with those little inner senses that never deceived him if he trusted them.
He slipped off the stethoscope and sat up. "Did you say you had pain?" he asked.
"A little." The tone was weary.
Dr. Carmon looked at him sharply. "Whereabouts?"
Medfield turned his head restively. "Everywhere," he said. "Up my back and shoulders—the right one—and in my head."
"Your head aches, does it?" That was the outside question; and inside, all the little therapeutic fibres in Dr. Carmon's stubby figure were saying to him: "His head is asgood as yours is, this minute! What's the matter with him? Buck up—and find out!"
He put his hand on the patient's wrist. "What would you like for dinner?" he asked.
"I couldn't eat anything," said Medfield passively.
"Not a nice chop—with some asparagus and mayonnaise?" The doctor was watching the face.
Medfield shook his head resolutely. "I don't feel like eating."
"Very well." Dr. Carmon sat back and looked at him. "I think you'd better go to bed—and stay there for a while."
"You think I got up too soon?" Medfield's voice was patient and full of acquiescence; it was very meek.
"I don't think anything," said Dr. Carmon gruffly. "But when a man can't eat, he'd better be in bed.... There's nothing the matter with you."
Medfield's heart gave a quick little jump, and the doctor's hand that had strayed again to his wrist, counted it grimly.
"You're tired. That's all! Had company?"
"Some one came in—yes. She only stayed a few minutes," he added virtuously.
"Well." Dr. Carmon got up. "That didn't hurt you—probably. You'll be all right. How's the boy?"
"All right. He's generally here," replied Medfield.
"Doesn't tire you?"
Herman Medfield's eyes opened quickly. "I want him here!" he said sharply.
Dr. Carmon's thought followed the look swiftly. "It isn't the boy, but it's something about him. I'll see the boy."
He rang the bell. "I'd get to bed right away if I were you."
It was Aunt Jane who came leisurely in, glancing at the two men. "Miss Canfield's at dinner. She'll come pretty quick—if you need her."
"We don't need her. He's to go to bed for a while." The doctor nodded to Herman Medfield, who had got up from his chair, and was standing beside him.
The millionaire in his blue silk robe with the velvet girdle and tassel was a stately figure; and, for the second time, Aunt Janehad a lively sense of Dr. Carmon's short, uncouthness and rumpled clothes—there was a large grease spot on the front of his vest. Her mind made a quick note of the spot while her eyes travelled placidly to Herman Medfield.
"I'm glad you've made up your mind," she said pleasantly.
He was moving toward the door of his bedroom. He stopped. "It isn'tmymind. It's the doctor's mind that's made up," he replied suavely.
Dr. Carmon watched him and smiled a little and Miss Canfield, coming in the door, wondered what Dr. Carmon's smile meant.
Aunt Jane and the doctor returned to the office.... She faced him.
"What's the matter?" she said.
He shook his head. "Just one of those things to keep you guessing." He shrugged his shoulders.
Aunt Jane's eye rested on the grease spot. "Soap and water will take that off!" she said practically. She laid a finger on the spot.
The doctor doubled his chin to look down on himself.
"Have the water hot—and plenty of soap," said Aunt Jane.
He grunted, and drew his coat over the spot. "When I get time," he replied.
Aunt Jane was in her office. It was Monday morning and the wheels had gritted getting under way. She had poured a drop of oil here and another drop there, as it seemed needed, and had come back to her office for a general survey before starting again.
It was well known in the House of Mercy that the times when the whole hospital force went scurrying about, under some sudden emergency, were often the times that Aunt Jane chose, for some unknown reason, to sit quietly in her office, doing nothing.
Hurrying by the office door, with tense look and quick-running feet, they would catch a glimpse of Aunt Jane sitting placidly at ease; and they would slow down a little, perhaps, and wonder what she could be thinking of to sit there as if nothing were wrong.... And then, somehow, through the hospitalwould run a quiet, steadying force that seemed to hold them in place and use them for its ends; and they would be conscious, as they worked, of being bigger than they had guessed.
Aunt Jane was not thinking now of any crisis. The troubles this morning were petty ones—"pin pricks," she called them. She was wondering about the millionaire—and wondering whether she would better go to Suite A.... Miss Canfield had reported a good night and Dr. Carmon would be coming soon.
She looked up. The doctor's figure was in the doorway. He nodded gruffly as he took off his coat. "Everybody all right?"
Aunt Jane's tongue clicked a little. She went to a corner of the room and moved back the screen and turned on the hot water.
"Come here," she said.
The doctor looked at her inquiringly.
"You didn't clean your vest! It's a perfect sight!" She tested the water with her hand and took up the soap.
Dr. Carmon glanced down at the expanse of vest guiltily. He scowled. "I'm too busy—to fuss." He reached for his bag.
"Come here!" said Aunt Jane.
And while he fidgeted and grumbled, her firm, efficient fingers scrubbed at him with soap and hot water and a bit of rough cloth. Satisfaction shone on him. "I never knew a man that could keep himself clean!" she said briskly.
"There!" She stood back a little. "It doesn't show much now. I'll do a little more on it—when it's dried off so I can see."
He backed hastily away. "I'll send it to the tailor. I'll do it to-night."
"You don't need to waste money on tailors," she said calmly. "A little soap and—" But he was gone.
Aunt Jane smiled to herself and put back the soap and hung up the cloth and replaced the screen. She moved with the ample leisure of those who have plenty of time.
A nurse came in from the waiting-room. "A man is here—a Mr. Dalton. He wants to know if he can see you?"
"Yes, I'll see him," said Aunt Jane.
"He said he could come again if you are too busy." The nurse waited.
"No, I'm not busy—no busier than I alwaysam, I guess. You tell him to come in."
He came in with quick step and a little light in his face—as if a glint of sun shone on a dark field.
Aunt Jane looked at him approvingly. "You're doing first-rate!"
He laughed. "I don't have to try. Luck is coming my way now!"
"Folks generally have to go fully half-way to meet it," said Aunt Jane. "You seen your wife?"
He nodded. "She has been telling me—I want to thank you!" He said it impulsively and came nearer to her; his dark face worked with something he did not say.
"Sit down, Mr. Dalton. You don't need to thankme," said Aunt Jane.
"Edith told me——"
"Yes, I don't doubt she told you. She thinks I did something, maybe. But I didn't.... When folks get well," she was looking at him and speaking slowly. "When folks get well theygetwell—all over; and then no matterwhocomes along and says to 'em, 'Why don't you do so-and-so?'—they think it'ssomething special.... Maybe it's just as well to let them think it—" she was smiling to him—"if it helps any."
"But it's true!" he said stoutly. "I've known Edith longer than you have—she hasn't ever been the way she is now."
"I'm glad for you, Mr. Dalton!" said Aunt Jane heartily, "and I know you'll be good to her. I can see it in your face—that you treat her well."
The face clouded. "I mean to—but I never seem to know just how she'll take things——"
"What's been the trouble?" asked Aunt Jane.
"She didn't tell you?"
Aunt Jane shook her head. "We didn't talk much—just visited together a little and got acquainted."
He seemed thoughtful. "I think the real trouble is something that never gets put into words; and it isn't so easy to put in words.... I'm a failure, I guess!" He looked up apologetically. "I don't know that you will understand. But I've had chances—every sort of chance—and I've never made good."
"Never made money, you mean," said Aunt Jane placidly.
He looked up quickly. "That's it!"
"What seemed to be the matter?"
"I don't know." He was looking before him. "When I got through college, I thought I was going to get on all right—thought I should be a big man some day." He looked at her and smiled.
"You look pretty big and strong," assented Aunt Jane.
He laughed out. "I'm big enough this way!" He reached out his arms from the broad shoulders and clinched the hands a little. "I can tackle anything in sight. But—" he leaned forward—"it's the things that are out of sight that I can't seem to come to grips with."
"That's what bothers most folks, I guess—men folks special," said Aunt Jane. "I've known a good many men, and I like them.... I like men better'n I do women," she added a little guiltily, "but sometimes it seems to me, when I'm with 'em, as if they were blind—a little mite blind about what's going on inside."
She rocked a little.
"Maybe it's just because they're slow," she said reflectively. "They can't see quick, the way women can, and they're kind of afraid of what they can't see—some like children in the dark." She was smiling at him.
He nodded. "You've got it! I shouldn't wonder if that's the way Edith feels. She's never said it just that way. But she doesn't seem to understand what I'm after; and I can't tell her—because I don't know myself," he added candidly.
"So while you're figuring it out, she calls it something else?" said Aunt Jane.
"That's it! And then we get—angry, and I can't even think. It seems to paralyze me, some way."
Aunt Jane was smiling to herself. "'Most seems as if it would have been a better way to have men folks marry men folks—" She looked at him shrewdly. "They'd get along more comfortable?"
He shook his head and laughed. "I want Edith just the way she is. But I wish——"
"Yes—we all do." Aunt Jane nodded. "We like what we've got—pretty well. Butwe're always wishing it was a little mite different some way.... I like my work here; and I do it about as well as I know how. But some days I wish—" She broke off and sat looking before her.
The young man's face regarded her attentively. He leaned forward. "I'm taking too much of your time. I didn't think how busy you must be. I'll go now. And thank you for letting me talk." He stood up.
Aunt Jane reached out a hand.
"Sit down, Mr. Dalton. That's what my time is for—to talk about things.... What was it you said you wished?"
He sat down. "I'd like to tell you—if you really have time.... And it won't take so long—" He was looking at it thoughtfully. "You see, I've never made good, because I've never stayed long in one place. That is what frets Edith—what she can't understand."
"It's hard for a woman—always changing round," said Aunt Jane. "Hard on the furniture."
He smiled. "We haven't changed house so many times. It's been mostly in the cityhere. But each time I've had to start all over.... After we were married, I went in with Clark & Lyman; that's Edith's father—George B. Lyman; and I thought I was fixed for life. And it wasn't six months before I had to move on."
"I suppose you'd done something they didn't like," commented Aunt Jane.
He laughed. "It was what Ididn'tdo! They said I didn't take my chances. Edith's father said I didn't."
"Take risks, you mean?"
"No.... Chances to make money—he said I let the best chances go by."
"Why did you do that?" asked Aunt Jane. Her face, turned to him, was full of kindly interest.
He sat with his hands thrust in his pockets, looking at her.
"That's what I've never been able to tell Edith," he said slowly. "But I think I can tell you—if you'll let me.... I've been thinking about it a good deal since she's been ill and I think it's because I always see something ahead—something bigger—that I'd rather work for." The hands thrust themselvesdeeper into his pockets and his face grew intent. "I feel it so strongly—that it seems wasteful to stop to pick up the twopenny bits they're scrambling for."
He threw back his shoulders. "Well, I'm going to try.... I've made up my mind—She means more to me than anything in the world and if she can't be happy, I'm going to give it up.... That's all! And thank you for letting me talk it out. It's done me more good than you know!" He held out his hand.
Aunt Jane took it slowly. "I don't quite think I'd give up, Mr. Dalton." She was looking at him through her glasses, and the young man had a sudden sense that her face was beautiful. "I don't think I'd give up—not quite yet—if I was you."
Dr. Carmon and Aunt Jane stood in the sitting-room of Suite A. The door to the bedroom was ajar, and through it Miss Canfield could be seen moving about and waiting on Herman Medfield.
Aunt Jane went quietly to the door and drew it together with noiseless touch. "How is he?" she asked.
"All right. There's nothing the matter—that I can find out." Dr. Carmon shrugged his shoulders a little. "Temperature normal—no change, you see." He pointed to the chart lying on the table, and ran his finger along the lines. "Pulse good. Slept like a top, Miss Canfield says."
"She's to go on ward duty to-day," said Aunt Jane.
He looked up quickly. "I want her!"
"You said, yesterday, I could have her for the Men's Ward," replied Aunt Jane. She was looking critically at the spot on his vest and he drew his coat quickly together.
"That was yesterday," he said gruffly. "I can't spare her now."
Aunt Jane sighed. "It doesn't seem right for one person to have everything."
"He'll have to have things—for a while," replied Dr. Carmon. "He'll have to have what he wants—till I find out what's wrong with him.... He wants Miss Canfield—and I can't take the risk of having him upset!" He spoke a little brusquely at the end.
Aunt Jane's feathers ruffled themselves. "I don't know what call he has to expect to have any particular nurse!" she said. "We shall take good care of him, whatever nurse he has!"
"Yes—yes—of course." Dr. Carmon was testy and placating. "But I told him he could have Miss Canfield—till he was out of bed—and she'll have to stay."
"You told him—he could have Miss Canfield!" Aunt Jane's eye held something and looked at it. "When did you tell him that?" she asked at last, letting it go.
"I told him yesterday—when you sent for me.
"After the widow was here?"
"Yes." He looked at her. "Anything wrong about that?" Dr. Carmon was not in his best humor. He felt Aunt Jane's eye boring through to the offending spot and there was subtle disapproval in her manner—something he did not quite fathom. "She'll have to stay!" he said—and the tone was final.
Aunt Jane's only reply was a little chuckling laugh.
He glared at her and went out.
Her smile followed him from the room. She went over to the window. From the next room came the sound of voices—Miss Canfield's low and quieting, and Herman Medfield's expostulating and fretful—and then silence.
Aunt Jane went across and opened the door. She looked in on Herman Medfield. He was lying with his eyes closed and an almost peaceful expression on his countenance. Miss Canfield was not in the room.
He opened his eyes and saw Aunt Jane and closed them quickly. His face changed subtly and swiftly to mild distress.
Aunt Jane came leisurely in.
The eyes did not open or respond to her questioning look.
She sat down by the bed.
"Good morning," he said feebly.
Aunt Jane smiled. "I didn't think it was good—not very good—not from what Dr. Carmon told me," she said slowly.
Medfield sighed. "Some pain," he admitted. He turned his head restlessly.
"Well, we must expectsomepain." Her voice was as big and breezy as all outdoors.
Medfield's face relaxed under it—to a kind of meek patience.
Aunt Jane watched it kindly.
"What you need, Mr. Medfield, is a good wife——"
The eyes flew open—and stared—and closed again quickly.
She nodded. "That's what I've been thinking—some one that has sense and can do things—not just talk about 'em."
He smiled faintly. "I'm taken very good care of," he replied politely. "I couldn't ask for better care than I've had here." The eyes closed themselves again.
"Yes—Miss Canfield's a good nurse." Shewas watching the face and the closed eyes. "She takes good care—and she's got sense.... What I was thinking was, that you could go home now—if you had somebody to go with you to look after you and take interest—if you had a wife."
"I'm not well enough," interposed Medfield quickly.
"Oh, yes—you're well enough, I guess."
"The doctor said I was to stay in bed!" His defense was almost spirited.
"You and Julian could go together," went on Aunt Jane ignoring it. "He'lllook after you some."
Medfield groaned. And Aunt Jane reached out a hand to his forehead. Her cool touch rested on it.
"Your head feels all right," she said, smoothing it slowly.
The little wrinkles went out of Medfield's brow and Aunt Jane watched it relax.
"Better tell me all about it," she said gently. "You'll feel better to get it off your mind, maybe."
"Idon'tfeel well, you know." It was almost apologetic.
"No—and next thing you know, you'll be down sick—just pretending.... I've been thinking about it," she said slowly. "Ever since you were took down yesterday—but I didn't sense what was the matter—not till this morning."
"You don't know now!" Herman Medfield's tone was guilty and a little apprehensive.
Aunt Jane smiled. "Yes, I reckon I see it just about the way it is—now.... You don'twantto get well—not yet."
"No." He admitted it feebly.
"And you don't want we should take Miss Canfield off your case."
He said nothing.
"Well, we're not going to take her off."
His face brightened a little.
Aunt Jane laughed softly. "That's right! You can chirk up—all you want to!... Youdoneed a good wife—much as anybody ever I see."
He opened his lips—and stared at her—and closed them. "I—I believe I do!" His eyes rested on the fresh childlike color in Aunt Jane's face and the little lines that twinkled at him.
"I believe I do!" he repeated softly.
Aunt Jane nodded sagely, "That's what you need."
She got up leisurely. "Well, I must go do my work."
He put out his hand. "When will you come again?" he asked.
"Oh—along by and by." She was moving from him. "You just tend to getting well.... You'll be able to sit up some time this afternoon maybe." She nodded to him from the door and was gone.
He lay looking at the place where she had disappeared. A little wonder held his face; a gentleness had come into it and the eyes watching the closed door smiled dreamily.
When Miss Canfield returned she glanced at him in surprise. "You're looking better!" she exclaimed.
"I feel better!" said Medfield almost gayly. "The pain is entirely gone."
"That's good! We'll have you up—in a day or two."
"I don't see why Julian has not been in," replied Medfield.
She paused. "He did come," she spokeslowly. "But we thought perhaps it was better not to disturb you.... You were sleeping when he came—you seemed to be asleep."
"Didyousee him?" demanded Medfield.
"Yes." The little dear color that was always in her face mounted a trifle. "He's coming after dinner," she added quietly.
Medfield's face was cheerful. "I want to see him when he comes— If I am asleep, you tell him to wait."
"Very well, sir."
"You tell him, yourself. Don't trust any of those people out there!" He made a motion of distrust toward the hospital in general. "You have him wait—see him yourself."
In the linen-room at the end of the corridor Miss Canfield was busy with supplies for Suite A. She stood on a chair in front of a great cupboard; and her shoulders were lost in the depths of the cupboard.... A sound behind her caused her to withdraw her head.
Julian Medfield, standing in the door, looked at her.
"What is the matter?" she said quickly. She got down from the chair.
"I thought I should find you," replied the youth.
"Did you want me?"
"Yes."
"What has happened?"
He watched her smilingly. "I didn't say anything had happened.... I said I wanted you."
The color mounted swiftly and she turned to the pile of linen on the table and gatheredit up. "I am rather busy this morning," she said quietly. "I thought you meant your father needed something."
"No—he doesn't need anything, I guess. They told me in the office, thatyouwantedme—they said you had left word for me. They made a mistake, perhaps." He spoke half teasingly and she lifted her chin.
"That was your father," she replied. "He didn't want to miss you." She sorted out the sheets impersonally. She had not looked at him after the first flurried minute.
"Do you want me to go away?" he said quietly.
She looked up, startled. "Why?"
"I didn't know."
Her fingers returned to their work. "I think your father is awake," she said in a businesslike tone. "I will go and see." She placed the linen in the cupboard and closed the door and locked it.
His hand made a little gesture. "Would you please——"
She waited.
"I can't say anything if you look like that!" he said whimsically.
She moved from him to the window. "There isn't any need to—say anything!"
The reddish hair was lighted up against the window as he had seen it before, and he watched it.
"That's the wayIfeel!" he said softly.
"How do you feel?" She wheeled about and looked at him.
"As if there wasn't any need to say things. As if——"
She had turned back to the window. He went toward her.
"You've known all along!" he said.
He addressed the little locks gathered up under her cap.
He was quite near to her now.
"You knew—the first day I came—when I saw you—in father's room," he declared to the little locks of hair. "Didn't you?"
There was no reply.
"And every time I've seen you since!" he said exultingly. "And now that I've got you alone for a minute—you pretend——"
"I'm not pretending!" The shoulders shrugged a little.
"And turn your back on me," he added quietly.
"It's very thoughtless!" she said, speaking to the window. "You make it awkward for me.... I hoped you would have sense enough—not to say anything!"
"I haven't any sense," said the young man. "And you have so much.... That's why I like you. I fell in love with your sense—the first day!"
She had turned and faced him now. "Of course you don't care!" she said indignantly. "It is just a joke to you—to come, interfering with my work——"
"I didn't mean to stop you!" He glanced helplessly at the linen-cupboard.
"I mean my nursing!" she said with dignity. "I can't take care of your father if you're looking at me—and saying foolish things—all the time!"
He reached out a hand. "I'm not saying foolish things," he said quietly. "And you know it——"
A little bell buzzed somewhere and she lifted her head. "He's ringing—" she said quickly. "It's his bell! I'll have to go!"
Then she waited.
And he took her hands and looked down atthem, and bent and kissed them gently, and watched the little color come dancing into her face.
"Pretending you didn't care!" he said.
He crushed the two hands hard and she cried out and drew them away—and lifted them to her face and began to cry into them—little hard sobs that shook her. And he held her close and patted the troubled shoulder.
"There, there!" he said. His voice was very young and happy and surprised.
And she looked up and smiled—a queer little reddened smile—under her crooked cap.
The bell tinkled—and rang a long shrill burr.
"I shall have to go! I know I look like a fright!" She reached to the cap.
"You look dear!" said the young man exultantly.
But she was gone and he was speaking only to the white wainscoted panels of the linen-room and to the sunlight flooding in.
Herman Medfield glanced at her sharply as she came in.
"I've been ringing some time," he said dryly.
"I was in the linen-room. I'm sorry. I came as soon as I could."
He looked at her face. "What is the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing." She shook her head.
"You look as if you had been crying," he said, studying her.
"I haven't anything to cry about. I am very happy!" She returned his gaze serenely, with a little fluttering look that came and went underneath.
"You look happy," he admitted. "But I could swear you'd been crying."
"It doesn't matter how I look, does it?" She straightened the clothes a little and shook out his pillows. "Can I get you something, sir? I'm sorry you had to wait."
"It doesn't matter. But I woke up, and thought of Julian—I was afraid he would go away.... I told you to have him wait, you know; and it's after three—he ought to be here by this time." His tone was petulant.
"I'll see if he is here," she replied.
But the door of the sitting-room had opened and they caught a glimpse of the young man crossing the room.
"There he is!" said his father with satisfaction. "Now, don't you go—I may need you."
The boy came and stood in the doorway. "Hallo, Father! How do you do, Miss Canfield." He bowed to her.
"Come in, Julian," said Medfield impatiently. "I missed you this morning. How did you find things at the office?"
"All right, I guess." The young man crossed the room slowly. "I shouldn't know if they weren't right.... I know as much about the business as"—he looked about him and smiled—"as that brass knob over there!" He nodded to it.
His father smiled contentedly. "You'lllearn." Then he looked at him quickly. "You like it, don't you?"
"Oh, I like it," said the young man comfortably. "I like it better than anything I've ever done—I feel as if I belonged there. I feel like my own grandfather, I guess." He laughed happily.
"Of course they treat me a good deal like a kid," he added.
"You're not so very old!" responded Herman Medfield with a twinkle.
The young man's eye rested impersonally on the nurse who was moving about the room. "I'm growing up every day," he declared cheerfully.
Miss Canfield's face was not responsive. She was studying Herman Medfield's chart. She took it up and left the room.
Medfield's eyes followed her. "There's a young woman who knows her business," he said with approval.
Julian sat down. "She seems very competent," he responded.
His father shot a keen glance at his cheerful indifference.
"She's more than competent," he saidseverely. "You want to be tied up like this for a while—to find out what people really are."
"I don't think I should mind it—so much." The boy smiled at him frankly. "You look very comfortable, sir."
"I am better," admitted Medfield.
"What put you back yesterday?"
Medfield looked at the ceiling. "Nobody seems to understand just what it was," he said quietly, "unless, maybe, Aunt Jane knows.... I think perhaps she understands the case—better than the doctor."
"She's a nice old woman!" said Julian pleasantly. "Comfortable to have around."
His father's glance was amused and a little critical. "How old do you suppose she may be, my son?"
"Oh—I don't know—fifty! Any age!" said the boy. "You don't think of age—with a woman like that. You just love her!"
His father smiled. "You havesomesense, I see...."
"No, I don't want it!" He held up a warning hand. Miss Canfield had returned with his medicine. "I don't want it!" he said.
Miss Canfield smiled. "The doctor said you were to have it, sir."
"Set it down," said Medfield. "I'll take it by and by.... I'm not sick," he grumbled. "I don't need medicine!" He glanced at it with aversion.
His son looked on with amused smile.
Medfield's eye rested on him and then on Miss Canfield. His face cleared. He motioned to her. "I want my son to see that catalogue that came this morning—the rose catalogue, you know. Will you show it to him, please. It's in the other room."
She started toward the door. "I will bring it."
But he held up a hand. "No, I don't want it in here. I'm tired."
He turned to Julian. "It's the catalogue of foreign roses, from Rotterdam—the firm that Munson orders from. He wants to send in orders for fall delivery—right away. I looked it over and made out a list.... I showed Miss Canfield. She understands——"
He closed his eyes. "I think I'll rest a few minutes," he said. "She'll show the list to you and tell you what I said, and you cangive it to Munson to-night. Don't forget it."
He waved them away and lay with closed eyes.... Presently he opened his eyes and smiled a little.... Through the open door he could see two heads bending over the catalogue. The murmur of voices came to him soothingly.
He drew a sigh.... It was almost as if the boy were stupid! A girl like that—one in a thousand—right before him, every day for over a week now!... He lay listening to the voices—there were long silences, it seemed to him, and pauses.... The heads had moved a little. He could not see them and the gaps of silence irritated him.... His thoughts ran back to his own youth.Hehad not been backward! He held it with a flitting smile. In less than two weeks from the day he met her, she had promised to marry him.... Young people nowadays had no spirit—no fire! He fumed a little. It would probably take Julian six months to discover that the girl was even pretty!... He could not lie in bed six months, waiting for his son to get his eyes open!
He rang the bell impatiently and Miss Canfield came to the door.
She glanced at the glass on the stand beside him. "You have not taken your medicine!"
He looked at it guiltily. "I forgot.... Did you make out the list?"
"Partly." She hesitated, and he fancied that a little fine flush crept along under the transparent skin. "I don't believe I remembered all you said about them."
"Never mind!" He was magnanimous and suddenly cheerful. "I'll go over them again to-morrow.... And I'd like you to see the place where they are to be put." He was speaking slowly. "I think you might help me—if it isn't too much trouble——"
She looked at him questioningly.
"My rose garden, I mean," said Medfield.
"Oh—!" The little fine flush swept up again.
He watched it with satisfaction.
"Julian has never taken much interest in the garden," said Medfield. "He doesn't know one rose from another."
"No—?" She was busy with the glass on the stand.
"But women have a kind of instinct about such things." He was impersonal and gallant; and the little shadow of disturbance left her face.
She moved about, making him comfortable.
"I wish you would ask my son to come here," said Medfield.
The young man came—with the catalogue in his hand. His face was open and cheerful.
"How far have you got?" asked Medfield.
"I don't understand all your hieroglyphics," replied the young man, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "This, for instance!" He held out the book, pointing to a brilliantly colored specimen with little pencilled dots on the margin.
Medfield glanced at it. "That means, 'Try again,'" he said.
"Oh—!" He made a memorandum on the margin, smiling a little as he did it.
"Munson never wants to try things twice," said his father. "You'll have to watch him, or he'll leave that out, now." He nodded to the brilliant-pictured rose.
The boy's eye dwelt on it. "Looks worth trying for—several times," he said softly.
"It is," replied his father. "It's hardy and fragrant and prolific—I am going to have Miss Canfield go out home—to see the garden," he added irrelevantly.
The young man stood up. He looked at his father, a little bewildered, and then toward the door of the next room, where a white figure was flitting about at work.