"I want her to see the garden," went on Medfield. "She has excellent taste—and common sense. She can tell me what Munson's up to—this is just the season he needs watching. No telling what he'll do!"
"I see!" The young man turned over the pages of the Rotterdam catalogue slowly. He was absorbed in them.
"She's going to-morrow afternoon," said Medfield.
"Alone?"
"I suppose she'll go alone, yes—unless you want to spare time to take her," said Medfield carelessly.
"I shall be very glad to take her, sir!"
"Very well." Medfield was indifferent. "You can arrange it between you—four o'clock is a good time to be there," he added."The light is very good about four." He lay silent for a few minutes. It was growing dark in the room.
"You might have them serve tea for you in the pergola," he said quietly.
Julian started. He had thought his father was asleep. He came over to the bed.
"I'll see that she has a pleasant afternoon, sir." He stood looking down at his father, his hands in his pockets.
"She's been very good to me—taken good care of me, you know," replied Medfield.
"I understand," said Julian. "I'll do everything I can to make it pleasant for her." He looked at his father—and opened his lips to say something and turned away.
Miss Canfield had come in and touched the electric light, and it flooded softly into the room.
Some one was singing in the linen-room. Aunt Jane, going by in the corridor, heard the little song and stopped and looked in.
Miss Canfield, at work on her linen-cupboard, was singing happily as she worked. She had gathered up a handful of towels and carried them to the table and was looking at them with a little vexation, her lips still humming the song. She glanced up and saw Aunt Jane and the song stopped. She nodded to her.
"Things are in a terrible state here!"
Aunt Jane came leisurely in. "What's the matter?"
"Look at that!" The girl spread out the towel rapidly "—and that! Did you ever see such work! And—that! They ought not to be sent out like this!... And these belong in the Men's Ward!" She tossed them aside.
Aunt Jane surveyed the confusion equably."I must get around to the laundry," she said, "—and give them a good going over. I haven't given them a real good talking to—not for as much as three months, I should think!"
"They need it!" said the girl crossly. But her lips were smiling.
Aunt Jane glanced at them. "You're feeling pretty happy this morning," she commented.
The face broke in little dancing waves. "I don't know— Am I?"
"You look happy," said Aunt Jane. "It's your afternoon off— Maybe that has something to do with it?" She surveyed her kindly.
"Perhaps." The girl hesitated a minute, turning over the towels ineffectually—almost as if she did not see them. "I'm going out to Mr. Medfield's garden," she said at last. She was examining the torn hem of a towel with an absorbed look.
Aunt Jane accepted the news without surprise. "It's a nice garden, they say.... He's given you permission, I suppose?"
"He wants me to go—yes.... He'smaking plans for some new roses and he asked me to see where they are putting them." She did not look at the face, across the table, that was surveying her shrewdly. "I can get back in time," she added concisely—as if that were the main thing to be considered.
"Oh, you'll get back, time enough—I 'most wish I was going with you," said Aunt Jane reflectively.
The girl looked up quickly and down again at her towels. "Mr. Medfield is going—with me."
Aunt Jane's gaze remained in mid air—astonished and protesting. "He can't sit up!"
"Oh—I didn't mean— It's his son that is going."
"Oh—Julian!" Aunt Jane's tone was relieved. "Julian can go all right, I guess.... He's a nice boy," she added impersonally.
Miss Canfield made no comment.
"They say it's about the prettiest garden anywhere round," added Aunt Jane. "I've heard there's only one or two gardens to compare with it—as beautiful as his."
"Yes, I've heard so."
"It's real kind in him to think of it—sending you out there.... He's a good man," she added diplomatically. "He's cranky, but he's good!"
"He's an old dear!" said the girl heartily.
Aunt Jane stared. Her countenance was subdued. "Well—I don't know as I should call himold!"... She considered it. "I don't believe he's a day over fifty!" she concluded.
"I don't believe he is," assented Miss Canfield. "I should say that's just about what he is—fifty." She gathered up the towels.
Aunt Jane's face was a study. It opened out in little lines of protest—and closed slowly. "Fifty isn't so very old!" she finished mildly.
"Of course not. And he's an active man—for his years." Miss Canfield carried the pile of linen to the cupboard and stowed it away and came back. "What shall I do with these?" She pointed to the discarded pile.
Aunt Jane looked at it critically and sighed. "Leave it there! I'll take 'em along when I go to give 'em their talking to. I can't stop for it now."
She went into the corridor and presently the song floated out after her—light-hearted, and gay with little tripping runs in it.
Aunt Jane heard the song faintly in the distance as she knocked on Herman Medfield's door, and her face smiled intently.
He looked up almost benignantly from his place in the window and laid the newspaper on his knees and nodded to her.
"Good morning. I was wishing you would come in!"
"You don't look as if you needed anybody," responded Aunt Jane. "You look first-rate! I'm pretty busy this morning," she added thoughtfully. She sat down.
He beamed toward her; and the sunshine flooding in behind him lighted up the quilted robe in a kind of radiant haze of blueness.
"It's a wonderful day!" said Medfield, motioning toward the window.
"I don't know as it's any better day than it was yesterday," replied Aunt Jane. "Better inside, maybe," she added significantly.
He laughed out. "Much better! I'm all ready for business." He pointed to a pile of papers lying on a chair beside him.
She regarded them thoughtfully. "You don't want to go to work too soon— Can't somebody do it for you?"
"Nobody but me can attend to these." He laid his hand on them almost affectionately, and patted them.
"You're kind of tied down to them, aren't you?" she said impersonally.
"They are my interest in life!" he replied quickly. "I shouldn't have anything to live for—if it weren't for these!" A note of regret crept into the last words and shadowed them a little.
"No—I don't suppose you would." Aunt Jane's face was lost in something.
He regarded the look curiously. "Well—what is it?" he said. "Tell me!"
"I was just thinking you wouldn't need 'em so much when you got your wife," she said quietly.
"My—wife!" His hand loosened its grasp on the papers, and he looked out of the window.
"No." He turned to her and smiled. "I shall not need law papers, nor any other kind—when I have her."
And suddenly something happened to Aunt Jane. She sat up, very straight; the muslin cap radiated lines of dignity about a disturbed face. "I guess maybe we weren't talking about the same thing!" she said quickly.... "Miss Canfield told me she's going out to see your garden this afternoon."
"Yes—she's going with Julian." He spoke with satisfaction and a significance under-ran the words and laughed at her.
Aunt Jane gave a startled gesture——
"Oh!" she said.
Then, after a minute: "Oh!"
Something had collapsed in her. She was gazing at the ruins, a little bewildered.
Herman Medfield watched her and smiled. "You hadn't thought of that!" he said quietly.
"Well—" she made the slide gracefully and recovered herself. "No, I hadn't thought of just—that!"
She looked at him over her glasses. "It's a good thing!" she announced.
He nodded. "But it's a secret!" he cautioned. "Nobody knows—except you andme." He looked at her happily and shared his secret with her.
Aunt Jane's face grew inscrutable. She gave a little sigh. "When did it happen?" she asked.
"It hasn't happened!" returned Medfield. "But it's going to——"
"Well!" Aunt Jane got her breath. "It makes me feel as if I was a kind of blind—Blind as a bat!" she said vigorously. "Not to see.... I guess maybe I don't see anything!" she added with quiet scorn.
He laughed out. "You see more than I wish you did!... You were the only one I couldn't fool. You suspected something right away."
"Yes, I suspectedsomething—" said Aunt Jane. She let it go at that. She beamed on him. "I don't knowwhenI've been so pleased about anything!" she declared. "He's a nice boy!"
"One of the best!" said Medfield. "All he needs is backbone—and a little more steadying."
"She'll help," commented Aunt Jane.
"Yes, she will help." Medfield wasthoughtful. "But he needs some one in the business—I'm going to put him right into the business and the older men will overrun him—if I don't look out. He's clever. But he's too eager to agree. He takes the first thing at hand. He doesn't look ahead."
Aunt Jane's glance followed it. "Heispretty agreeable," she said slowly. "He needs somebody kind of contrary, I guess——"
"Why!" Her face lighted. "I know a man! Mr. Dalton would be a good man for him!" she exclaimed. "He'd be good for anybody!"
"You speak as if he were a pill!" said Medfield dryly. He had faith in Aunt Jane; and the more he studied the face under its muslin cap, the more faith he had—and something that was not faith, perhaps.... But as a man of business——
"He's just the one you want," said Aunt Jane with decision.
"Well—?" He resigned himself.
"He's obstinate— Of course, any man is obstinate," she interpolated kindly. "But he's more set than anybody I've ever seen!Seems as if it was part of his make-up, somehow.... I was talking with him the other day and he was telling me about how he'd never succeeded yet——"
There was a little amused and courteous smile on the millionaire's face. He had seen men before who had not succeeded—yet.
Aunt Jane nodded to it. "He said he couldn't stop to pick up the twopenny bits they wanted him to—because he saw something ahead—and all round him, kind of—that was worth more. So he was always having to move on." She rocked a little.
Medfield sat up. His hand reached out to the pile of papers and found a pencil.
"What did you say his name was?"
There was a keen little edge of interest to the words.
"His name is Dalton," said Aunt Jane. "His wife's been here a month and over, now. She goes home to-morrow. She's a nice woman!"
"And what is the address?" His pencil was making little marks on the pad.
"I'll get it for you in the office," said Aunt Jane. She got up. "He had to writeit down for me when she came—the same as you all do."
"Of course he may have 'moved on'—by this time." She smiled back to him whimsically from the door.
"If he has moved on, we will move—after him," said Medfield. "I suspect he's the man I have been looking for—a good while!"
Aunt Jane closed the door softly and left him to his happiness. At the far end of the corridor, as she looked down, she caught a glimpse of a dark, stubby figure pursuing its way. It disappeared in Room 16.... Dr. Carmon had a difficult case on this morning. He had told her there was little chance for the man in Number 16. She felt the concentration in the broad back as it disappeared from sight; and her thought left the millionaire in his suite and followed the shabby, grim figure into a darkened room.
"You look very well!" Medfield glanced at his son approvingly. "New suit?"
"I got it in Vienna," said Julian modestly.
"Um-m— Very good cut! Turn around."
The boy wheeled about.
"Yes—very good—— You have a nice day to go."
Medfield nodded toward the window.
"First-rate!" The young man's face was full of careless light. It seemed to radiate about them.
His father looked at it half curiously. "Have them serve tea for you.... Give her a good time," he said absently. He was searching among the papers beside him. "I ought to have some cards somewhere!"
"What is it, sir? Can I get something for you?"
"Over there in that desk— That's it! Lower drawer— Just see if there are some of my cards there, will you?"
The boy took them out with an amusedsmile. "Going calling?" He brought them across.
Medfield selected one and held his pencil thoughtfully poised for a moment—and smiled as he jotted something down.
He slipped it into an envelope and pencilled the address and handed it to his son.
"Give that to Munson, will you? Tell him to pick three dozen of the best roses in the garden, and send them to-day.... Tell him thebestones!" he added exactly.
The young man glanced at the address carelessly. His face lighted up.
"Fine! I'll tell him to send her some corking ones—a big bunch of them!"
"You can tell him what I said," said his father dryly. "And have them sent to-day."
"All right, sir." He half turned away. "I'd like to pick some roses myself—for Miss Canfield— You won't object, I suppose?" His father's roses were sacred.
But Herman Medfield waved it away. "Pick all you like." He was gracious with it.
"But not the best ones," laughed the boy. He tucked the card in his pocket and went out.
Aunt Jane, sitting at her desk in the office, looked up as he went by.
He nodded and smiled to her, thinking of the little card tucked away in his pocket.
She got up and came across. "You going out home?" she asked.
He radiated happiness. "A ripping good day, isn't it!" He waved his hand at all outdoors.
"You'll have a good time," said Aunt Jane. "And Miss Canfield's a nice girl." She was surveying his new clothes kindly. "I'm glad you're going to take her."
"So am I!" said the boy. "She's waiting for me—" And he hurried on.
But Miss Canfield was not in the waiting-room. He glanced hurriedly about, and crossed to the open window and looked into the street. He could not sit down.
It was a glorious day—floating clouds, everything fresh and flooded with light.... Down on the walk under the window the man-of-all-work trundled a low cart, and the rumble of the wheels came up, chucking clumsily along.
The young man scarcely heard the soundof the wheels. His ear was waiting for something in the corridor—for light footsteps that would come.... He shrugged his shoulders, looking down on the man trundling his cart, and he whistled softly.... Then his ear caught the sound, coming along the corridor far off—light, tripping steps and the little swish of draperies—and he had turned to face her.
It was not Miss Canfield!
A young woman stood in the doorway, looking in inquiringly.
She was tall and slender, with a certain quiet grace as she stood there, glancing into the room. There was something poised in the motion—a kind of freedom and lightness.
The young man's eye rested on her a minute—and turned back to the window indifferent.... She was very late. He took out his watch and looked—five minutes past the hour. He put it back with a little impatient gesture. They would miss the best light for the garden!
Behind him, in the room, he was conscious that the young woman had come in. She waswaiting for some one, it seemed, like himself—and he heard her move a little ... and then a subdued laugh. He half turned his head—it reminded him of something.... Could he have met her somewhere—before he went abroad? The steps rustled and came nearer and a touch fell on his shoulder—very light, as if it might drift away—as if perhaps it were not there....
Julian turned swiftly—and stared into her eyes; they were bubbling over with laughter, and the hair fluffing under the little modish hat, caught reddish gleams and glinted at him. And he stared!
She laughed out—the hands hanging easily before her. "You didn't know me!"
"You are not—you!" blurted Julian. "You are—you're different!"
Then he seized her hands and looked at her—"I say! Come on!... You are—You're stunning, you know!"
"Thank you!" said the girl. "Yes—I'm ready." And they went out into the sunshine.
And all the way, in the street-car, sitting beside her, the young man stole glimpses.
She was different! He had expected that she would be changed, of course—a little different in her street clothes; and underneath he discovered he had been half afraid of the change—afraid perhaps that she might be a little common or awkward, without the distinction of her cap and uniform.... But this young woman— He stole another glance, and his shoulders straightened in a gesture of pride and bewildered delight. This was the real thing! The other girl was masquerading.
"Who are you?" he said abruptly, as he put up his hand to help her from the car. "I don't know you! I thought I did—but you are somebody else!" He was looking at her keenly.
"Goose!" she laughed. "I am Mary Canfield, of course— Which way do we go?"
"This way." They fell into step. And he was conscious that the light, tripping, hospital step had given way to a free, swinging movement of the whole body. She was like the radiant day about them.... And she was like the roses—when at last they stood among them.... Her freedom had thesame careful air of cultivation; and the crisp little color in her cheeks had the same dainty refinement.
He plucked a rose and held it against her cheek. "Just a match!" he said critically. "Goes with you! Will you have it?"
She tucked it in her belt—among the endless frills—and he looked at it admiringly.
When he saw the gardener's eyes following them, he walked with conscious pride. He had not known that any one felt like this! He would have liked to walk with her always—with the whole world looking on and admiring her.... She belonged to him!
"I say!" He stopped short in the path. "You are engaged to me, you know!"
"Oh—am I?" She laughed.
He went in a panic— Some girls were such frightful flirts! They had no decency—They didn't play the game!
"You aremine!" he said fiercely and he glared at the gardener among his roses across the path.
"Oh—very well! Have it so!" Her voice was laughing and sweet.
His courage came flooding back. "You are to wait here—please, and we'll have the tea brought out."
"Oh— How pretty!" She was looking into the pergola. A green maze of branches crossed and recrossed the sides; and among them the scattered roses flushed transparently in the light. "How beautiful it is!"
"Will you go in?" he said, standing aside.
"Will you walk into my parlor?" She stepped lightly in and faced him. "Now go and get tea! I like it here!"
She sat down and he looked at her once—and was off.
He hurried fast. Suppose she didn't stay?... Suppose it were not real! He fussed about cakes and sandwiches—and there must be strawberries. Everything must be of the best. Suppose she didn't wait! He hurried back.
She had taken off her hat and sat with her hands clasped, looking up into the mazy green tracery and the bits of rose color shining through.
"It is like us," she said with a little motion of her hand.
"Like you," he said soberly, sitting beside her. "I'mnot a rose!"
"No!" She laughed out. "But itislike us—it's just happiness—nothing to it!" She crushed it in her hand.
And he stared at her.
"No one takes us seriously," she said. "They just think how young we are——"
"And how beautifulyouare!"
"They know it won't last." She was looking at it musingly. "And they thinkwe don'tknow——"
"Itwilllast!" said the boy vehemently.
"Will it?" She held out her hand prettily and he kissed it.
"It's going to last forever," he said stoutly.
"But we don't care if it doesn't.... Do you know, I think that is what makes it beautiful—" She glanced at the leafy walls of the pergola. "We know it will not be like this always—and so we just—love it!"
He stared a little. "You are not the least bit what I thought you were!" he said helplessly.
"Don't you like me!" Her eyes demanded it.
"I—adore you!" he said softly. "But all these ideas about not lasting— Good Lord!—Here's the tea!" He sprang up and took it from the man and set it out for her. And they drank it—with the light coming in through the crossing vines and checkering the table, and falling on her hair and gleaming delicately at him in little glints like stars—all through it.
"Do you think we'd better tell dad?"
They had gathered an armful of the roses and loitered along the winding paths, and were standing at last by the curb, waiting for the car.... She carried a few of the roses in her hand. She looked down at them thoughtfully. And suddenly the look of Miss Canfield, the nurse, flashed back to him.
"We don't want to upset him," she said slowly.
"I don't believe it will—upset him.... Do you know, I believe he wants it—I half suspect he's been planning it all along!"
"Do you? What makes you think so?" She had turned to him curiously.
He shook his head.
"Father's deep! I can't tell exactly why I think he knows.... But I never got very far ahead of him yet!"
"Very well—we will tell him."
"To-night?"
"If you like."
"I want him to see you like this— There's the car!" He hailed it.
So they came into Herman Medfield's room and stood before him with the armful of flowers. And he looked up at them—and smiled.
"God bless you, my children!" he said, after a critical glance at their smiling faces. "That is the proper thing to say, isn't it?" His eyes dwelt on them fondly.
Julian glanced at her. "I told you!" he said meaningly.
"What did you tell her?"
"That you knew all along, sir. I told her I never fooled you yet!"
"Well, you have tried hard enough.... Come here, please, Daughter."
So she went over and stood beside him and bent a little for him. And he kissed her, and looked at the delicate color that came and went in her face, and at the slender freshness of her figure as it straightened itself.
"I am glad my boy has done so well," he said quietly.... "I think I'll go to bed,when my nurse comes back. I am a little tired, I find."
"She will be here in a minute, sir—as soon as she changes her gown." She nodded to him and was gone.
And the boy and his father sat facing each other, with the light lessening in the room.
"How was the garden?" asked Medfield.
"Fine! I never saw it look so well!" The boy's voice was happy.
Medfield's eyes twinkled. "Perhaps you were not altogether fitted to judge." He was leaning back in his chair and looking at the light in his son's face.
"Perhaps not. I was never so happy in my life—I know that!" And his voice was serious now, with a deeper note in it than his father had heard.
And Herman Medfield began to speak of the business and of Dalton, and of his purpose to see Dalton.... They could use him, perhaps, in some minor capacity and see how he did.
"I have an idea that he may be the very man for your secretary—for your personal work, you know. I've always depended agood deal on Sully. You must have some one of your own.... Suppose you see this man Dalton yourself. See him to-morrow. Get the address from Aunt Jane—" He paused.... A look came to his face.
"You told Munson to send the roses, did you?"
"I told him. Yes. He'll send them to-night." The reply was absent. The young man's mind was reaching out to business and to the responsibilities that he saw his father would lay on him.
His shoulders straightened a little as he stood up. "I feel as if I had just come home," he said. "I've never felt at home before—anywhere!... It is curious to feel that way in a hospital, isn't it?"
His father's eyes were fixed on him dreamily. "I've been feeling 'at home,' too. And I have an idea a good many people feel that way—in the Berkeley House of Mercy." He said the last words slowly and softly, as if they pleased him.
"Why should they, I wonder?" said the boy.
"I wonder—" said Herman Medfield."Perhaps I shall be able to tell you some day. I feel as if I were beginning to understand a good many things I never knew before.... If you will just give me your arm now, across the room, I think I'll get to bed."
Aunt Jane was tired. She would not acknowledge it—even to herself. But it had been a trying day. The people in the laundry had been surprisingly difficult—when she went to give them their talking to, and she finally had to put her foot down.
She went slowly along the hall now, giving a last look for the night and glancing into shaded rooms, here and there.... At the door of 16 she paused.... The case in 16 troubled her. Dr. Carmon was anxious about the case. He did not need to tell her. She had known by the little hunched-over look of his broad shoulders down the hall.... She knew that look as far as she could see it.... And he had already been twice to look after Room 16.
She went in and gave a few directions to the nurse and glanced at the figure on the bed, and went on to her office.
The room looked very inviting as she came in. Her big chair stood waiting for her, the light comfortably shaded beside it, and she crossed to it leisurely. She would rest a few minutes, and make her entries in the day-book and go to bed.
She sat down with a sigh of comfort and rocked gently.
The house was very quiet. The softly creaking rockers seemed the only thing awake....
Aunt Jane's eye fell on a long pasteboard box resting on a chair across the room. She looked at it doubtingly. She was too tired to get up. But the sight of the long box irritated her subtly. She had thought flowers were over—for the day. Sometimes Aunt Jane wished that she might never see another flower-box! She wished so now.... Just as she wanted to rest! Well, she would get up presently and take it to the ice-box. Let it stay there till morning. It was no time of night to be sending flowers.... Everybody in bed and asleep! She looked at it severely and got up from her chair and took it up.
Her eye fell on the address— She looked at it disbelievingly—and put it back on the chair—and looked at it.... She fidgeted about the room and came back to the chair.
Aunt Jane had never received a box of flowers in her life. She had handled hundreds of them—they had passed through her hands into the eager waiting hands held out for them. She had watched the faces light up, and she had looked on and smiled tolerantly. Folks' faces wereherflowers, she had said.... She had never wanted to keep the flowers herself. Flowers were things to be passed on to some one else. No one had ever sent them to her. They knew better!
She looked down at the innocent box as if it contained something baleful—something that would disturb the quiet routine of life for her. She did not want to be disturbed—She did not want flowers! And she reached out her hand to the box.... It was very long and big. She wondered how she could have overlooked it when she came in.... If she had not been so tired she would have seen it—perhaps. Who could have sent it, she wondered; and a little, mild curiositycame under the white cap as her fingers undid the tape, and rolled it methodically, and lifted the lid of the box and raised the bit of waxed paper underneath— Aunt Jane gave a pleased sigh.
Herman Medfield's best roses—three dozen of them—shed their fragrance about her; and the little card lying on top of them held their message. She took it up gingerly and read it and put it down sharply—as if it had burned her—and looked at it.
Then she gathered up the roses in her hands and held them against her face—until her very cap was lost to sight.... It was a subdued face that emerged from the roses at last. Something of their hardy color seemed to have been caught in its disturbed quiet.
She laid them on the table and brought a great vase of water and shook them loose in it—standing off to look at them and touching them here and there.... The subdued look glanced softly at the roses as she lifted the vase and set it on her desk—and stood back again to admire them.
They made a gorgeous show—lighting upthe wall behind them. The room was filled with rose fragrance.
She moved slowly backward, gazing at them—a troubled, happy look in her face.... Then her eye fell on the little card lying on the table.
She looked down at it, fascinated, and took it firmly in her fingers and carried it to the desk and slipped it beneath the vase—with Herman G. Medfield's name exposed.... There was no reason why Mr. Medfield should not send flowers to her!
She surveyed them complacently. It was very natural for Mr. Medfield to send flowers—and the little card announced to all the world—how natural it was.... The words jotted on the other side of the card were safely out of sight.
Aunt Jane sat down at her desk and folded her hands on the edge of the blotter and looked at the flowers. Her peaceful face gave no hint of anything but the most serene admiration and pride.
Her hand reached out for the big day-book and drew it forward and opened it and took up the pen; and Aunt Jane's finger found theplace and moved along the dotted lines composedly.... And two great tears fell on the spotless page and blurred it and Aunt Jane sat up and sought swiftly for her handkerchief. She dabbed at two more tears that were sweeping down—she moved the handkerchief quickly across her face and wiped it over the page, and once more across her face—that kept breaking up in little incredulous, ashamed waves. She shut up the day-book impatiently and folded her arms on top of it and dropped her face on her arms and sobbed—a great, shamed, bewildered sob that shook the quiet shoulders; then they were very still.
Presently she sat up. She shook out her handkerchief and blew her nose methodically and opened the book. "I am a fool!" she said softly. "Room 36—" And two left-over tears splashed down on Room 36 and flooded it— Tears enough to wash Room 36 out of existence. They overwhelmed Aunt Jane.
She got up abruptly and closed the book and turned down the light—groping for it and glancing hastily at the open door. Thelight shone dimly on a very disturbed and crumpled face.
She looked about her for a minute. Then she went to a small door and drew a key from beneath her apron and inserted it in the lock.
No one in the hospital knew what was behind the small door. It was popularly supposed to hold Aunt Jane's private supplies—dangerous remedies for emergencies, perhaps. No one knew.
She opened the door slowly and stepped in, closing it gently behind her; the key still dangled from the lock. There was no light in the little room—except for the moonlight shining through a small window and lighting up the bareness of the place; it shone on a single chair by the window. There was nothing else in the room. Aunt Jane went across to it and sat down.... She was not crying now. She folded her hands in her lap and sat very quiet, and the moonlight filtered in through the window and touched the muslin cap and the white figure, and passed silently across it and fell on the floor, making a luminous path in the blackness.... And Aunt Jane did not stir.
Often when she was sought for in the hospital and could not be found, high or low, Aunt Jane was sitting by the window of this tiny room, gathering up the tangled fibres of pain and discord and holding them steady.... She knew all the stars that moved across the window—at every hour of the night, and every night of the year. It was not a new experience for her to sit very quiet, while the stars travelled across.... But to-night she was not reaching out to stars and drawing them down into the pain of the world to heal it.
She was looking into a very queer, disturbed heart—that seemed breaking up in little bits. Curious things bubbled up and startled her as she gazed at them.... No one had loved her for twenty years!— Whyshouldany one love—an old woman like her?... Why should shewantto be loved? Her thought was full of gentle scorn for all old women that wanted to be loved—and for Aunt Jane!... She would have to get a new day-book, or tear out the page! What would Mrs. Samuel Hotchkiss, chairman of the Woman's Board of Directors, say to thatpage if she happened to come on it!... It was a disgraceful page! Aunt Jane was a disgrace! And something in her heart ached so with the happiness and the misery of it, that Aunt Jane's lips fell to quivering.... Any woman that had as much as she had to be thankful for, ought to be ashamed!... And what was Herman Medfield? Just a man! But it wasn't Herman Medfield—it was all the repressed heartache of years.... "Women are not fit to live alone!" She had said it many times. But she had not thought of Aunt Jane when she said it.Shewas superior to such things—with her hospital and her patients and Dr. Carmon— Her thought stopped suddenly—and flashed on.... She had always thought she depended on the Lord—and here was this great lonely ache in her heart.
It didn't seem to make any difference how ashamed she was!
Her handkerchief brushed fiercely at her eyes.
There was a sound in the outer office. Aunt Jane sat up— Some one looking for her! The hand felt again for its handkerchiefand she turned her head to listen.... The steps crossed the office and a bright line of light ran along under the door. Aunt Jane's eye rested on it. She brushed the traces of crying from her face and reached up to her cap. Then she leaned forward to the door—she could reach it from her chair in the little room without getting up; and she turned the handle softly, opening it a crack.
There was no sound in the office.
From her crack, Aunt Jane could see the table and the shaded light on it and a man standing by the table looking down.
His back was toward the door, but Aunt Jane had no doubt about the shabby, wrinkled coat and the shrugging shoulders.
She waited, holding her breath. She was not quite sure of her cap—she put up her hands to it cautiously, adjusting and smoothing it.... The figure by the table moved across to the bell and rang it sharply.
His face was toward her now. She saw that he was smiling a little.
Aunt Jane nodded shrewdly. Number 16 was better!... From her place in the dark, she watched the man move about the room. He was humming softly—a half-meaningless little tune, with a tumty-tumty refrain, and his face was absent.
A nurse appeared in the door and looked at him inquiringly.
He glanced at her. "I want Mrs. Holbrook—yes."
"Aunt Jane? I don't know where she is. I thought she came into her office."
"Well—she isn't here. You can see she isn't here, can't you? Find her—please."
Aunt Jane behind her crack, shivered a little as the girl turned. But the nurse had eyes and ears only for the surgeon and his impatience. She hurried away.
Aunt Jane drew a free breath.
The surgeon crossed to her desk and halted there. His eye rested absently on the great bunch of roses. Presently his face lighted up; he was seeing the roses! He looked at them with an air of appreciation. The little smile was still on his lips, and the tumty-tumty tune.... Slowly he leaned forward, on tiptoe, and—smelled of them and nodded approval.
Aunt Jane's hands made swift, darting touches at her cap and her apron and her hair and she got up quickly.... Perhaps he would go away! But Dr. Carmon's eye had fallen on the little card under the vase and he took it up—and read the name with near-sighted curious gaze, and turned it over——
Aunt Jane stepped out from her place. "How is Number 16?" she asked placidly.
He wheeled—the card in his hand.
"Oh! You're here! I just sent for you." He waved the card.
"I know. I was busy."
"Funny, I didn't hear you come in!" He looked at her thoughtfully.
"You were thinking of something else, maybe," said Aunt Jane tranquilly. She came up to the desk.
He looked curiously at her face.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing," responded Aunt Jane. "Do I look as if anything was the matter?" The face under its ink stains was serene.
Dr. Carmon regarded it critically. "Soap and water—" he suggested. He pointed a helpful finger at the smudge of ink on her cheek.
She lifted a quick hand.
He nodded grimly. "And there's a little over there by your left ear," he said wickedly.
She rubbed at the place blindly. "I must have got ink on me—when I was making up my book—" Her glance flitted toward it.
Dr. Carmon's eye fell on the open page and on the smudge of Room 36. He bent forward, tapping the place with the card in his hand, and laughed out.
"I never saw your book look like that!" He gazed at it and then at Aunt Jane's face—a little suspiciously.
She leaned forward to inspect it.
"Somebody must have spilled water—or something on it!" she said casually. "Folks are so careless here!" She laid a blotter methodically across the smudge and closed the book and put it away.
Dr. Carmon surveyed the roses. "Handsome bunch of flowers!" he said carelessly. He waved the card at them.
"They look nice," admitted Aunt Jane. "They're some Mr. Medfield sent—they came from his garden." Her tone was quiet and businesslike—there was no nonsense about those roses. She looked at them impersonally.
"I saw it was his card." Dr. Carmon's hand motioned with the card and dropped it to the desk. He might almost have been said to fling it from him—as if it were a challenge.
"Who did he send them to?" he asked.
"Why—to me!" said Aunt Jane.
She tried her best to look commonplace and unconcerned—as if she had been receiving roses all her life—as if she had large bunches of them every day, flaming away there on her desk.
Dr. Carmon's glance twinkled across the roses—to the placid face.
"Humph!" he said.
"How is Number 16?" asked Aunt Jane.
"Fine!" Dr. Carmon's face lighted with it. He forgot roses—"He's going to pull through all right—I think."
"That's good! I kind of reckoned he'd come through." She had turned a leisurely glance to the door.
The nurse stood there.
"I can't—" she began. "Oh—you're here! I looked everywhere for you!"
"Yes, I'm here. I've been here quite a spell," said Aunt Jane.
The nurse withdrew and Dr. Carmon and Aunt Jane and the roses were left alone.
He looked suspiciously and grudgingly at the roses and shrugged his shoulders andturned away. He took his hat. "I want you to look in on Number 16—sometime later."
There was no "please" about the request—or "will you kindly." But Aunt Jane understood.
"I was planning to go in by and by—along about four o'clock," she said kindly. "That's the time he'll need somebody most, I guess!"
Dr. Carmon looked again at the roses. "I shall want Suite A, Friday—for a new patient," he said abruptly.
Aunt Jane's mouth opened—and closed.
"Medfield's well enough to go," said Dr. Carmon. He nodded to the roses—as if they knew of Herman Medfield's health. "He'll be better off at home!" he said shortly—and shot out the door.
Aunt Jane gazed after him, a minute.
She took up the card from the desk and held it off and looked at it severely and shook it a little—as if it might have known better—and dropped it into a small drawer behind the roses and locked the drawer—and put the key in her pocket.
Then she turned off the lights and left the room. And the great bunch of roses that had flamed up so bravely, lost their color in the dark.
Perhaps they went to sleep.
All night the fragrance of the roses stole out into the room and filled it—as if little flitting dreams of roses came and went there in the dark.
Things were moving happily in Suite A. Herman Medfield had been awake and stirring since daybreak. He had written one or two notes in his own hand, and had dictated a longer one to Miss Canfield. It was addressed to Thomas Dalton, and it lay on the stand beside his chair in the window.
The girl had grasped its import swiftly, as she took down the crisp words.
"It is just what Julian needs," she said compactly as she folded and sealed and stamped it.
He nodded. "You understand him surprisingly well—considering that you love him," he added smiling.
She returned the smile. "That'swhyI understand, isn't it?"
"Perhaps——"
He watched her move about the room, contentedly. Julian was a lucky dog! Luckierthan he knew, to win a girl like that—sweet and sensible and poor!
"I will mail this now," she said. She took it from the stand.
He watched her go, and looked out of the window, and fell to thinking of the things life was bringing him.... Everything seemed coming to him out of this great, comfortable hospital—that he had looked forward to with dread!... A wife for Julian—He might have searched the world over to find a girl like that! Straight, and as true as steel, and best of all—she was poor; she would know the value of money. She had had to work for it— He had always spoiled Julian. He knew it, guiltily. Julian had never known what it was to want for anything that money could get—except, perhaps, a widow or two! The millionaire's lips smiled grimly. That danger was over—thank Heaven! The boy would marry a poor girl—and a lady!... Herman Medfield had perhaps old-fashioned ideas as to what makes a lady; and the nurse who moved so noiselessly about his room suited him to perfection.... His thought dwelt on her happily....Then there was this man, Dalton—Thanks to Aunt Jane!... Ah, that was the secret! "Thanks to Aunt Jane!"
The millionaire leaned back in his chair, smiling thoughtfully. He had known that he was coming to that—as he sat there in the window, looking idly down into the little squares of back yards—he had known all along—under his thankfulness for Julian—that he was coming to the thought of Aunt Jane.... He had held it to the last.... It was not Julian he was thinking of now—with the little smile that kept coming to his lips.
He was smiling at Aunt Jane and her crispness and her goodness and her little managing wilful ways that kept him straight.... He was like a small boy in the very thought of her. A man ought to feel that way toward his wife, he told himself—all men really feel like that!
There was a gentle tap on the door and he sat up. He smoothed the dreams from his face.
"Come in!"
The whole room seemed to become a place of comfort, as she came leisurely across to him.
"I hear you've been doing considerable this morning." She looked at him uncritically.
His response was guilty. "Only a letter or two— Sit down, won't you?" He reached out to a chair for her.
But Aunt Jane interposed—"When you're well enough to wait on folks, you're well enough to go home," she said.
"Oh— I'm not well enough for that—I feel sure!" He sank back in his chair. "I shall be very careful what I do!"
She surveyed him. "I liked the roses you sent— They're real handsome!... I don't know as I ever had any handsomer roses sent to me!"
"I am glad you liked them." He was suddenly a little formal and polite. He had not expected quite such frank and open delight in his offering.
"And the card—" he said softly, after a minute. "I hoped you liked that, too?" He was almost shy about it!
Aunt Jane looked at him inquiringly and rocked a little. "Was there a card—?" She seemed considering it. "Maybe it got lost out." She shook her head.
The shadow crossed his face. "You're sure there wasn't a card with them—no message?" His tone was vexed and he sat up.
"That's Munson's carelessness!" he said dryly.
"I can't seem to remember any card," said Aunt Jane.
A little smile broke up his face.
"You would remember it—if you had read it! I made sure of that!" He chuckled gently.... "Never mind—I will send you another—with some more roses."
"You don't need to send them right away—not for some time," said Aunt Jane hastily. "These will last quite a spell. I cut the stems every day, you know—same as if I was a patient!" Her eyes twinkled at him.
And he smiled at the round trustfulness of her face. He was vexed at Munson for carelessness. But there was plenty of time—to send roses! And he enjoyed sitting there and teasing her a little and watching the guileless face, turned so comfortably upon him.... She little knew what was on that card!
He chuckled.
"You'll be ready to go home in a day or two now," she said impersonally.
He cast a quick look at the face in its cap. "No use to borrow trouble!" he responded lightly.... "I have some news for you!"
"For me!" A quick flush swept under the cap and subsided. "I hope it's good news," she said tranquilly.
"Yes—It's good for you.... You'll think it's good some day! My son is going to be married." He leaned back to watch the effect.
She nodded. "We talked about that yesterday."
"But it hadn't happened then!"
"Hadn't it?" There was no contradiction in the response. But it brought him to a sudden pause.
"Why—of course not! I don't believe it had! Do you know anything?" He turned on her swiftly.
"No, I don't know anything." Aunt Jane was cheerful. "Not anything I could put my finger on," she added slowly. "But I kind of sensed, somehow, that they'd got things settled—between 'em."
"Oh, you 'sensed'!" he scoffed gently.
"Well—she'll make him a good wife," Aunt Jane rocked. "Of course, he don't need a rich wife——"
"No, I don't want him to marry money!" Medfield spoke with satisfaction. His magnanimity overspread the poverty of his son's wife—and welcomed it and exulted in it.
Aunt Jane's face was tranquil—and somewhere deep below, little twinkles came up to the surface and stirred it.
"Well, he doesn't need to marry her money—" she said slowly. "He can't help her having it, of course. But she'll make him just as good a wife."
He stared. "I must have given you a wrong impression." He was polite about it. "Julian is going to marry Miss Canfield."
"Mary Canfield has money—more money than most folks. She's going to make a good nurse, though. She came in and took the training as if she hadn't a cent to her name—She said she wanted to be something besides Sheldon Canfield's——"
"Sheldon Canfield!" He took it up. "Was Sheldon Canfield her father?"
"His name was Sheldon," said Aunt Jane. "Maybe you've heard of him?"
Herman Medfield laughed shortly. "He did me out of a million dollars! Sheldon Canfield!" He looked at the thought and shook it. "I fought him for ten years. I swore I would break him before I died— Buthedied first! Sheldon Canfield's daughter!" He held it before him. "So Sheldon Canfield's daughter has been taking care ofme!"
"She's taken good care of you!" said Aunt Jane. It was almost defensive; and he gave her a quick look.
"The best of care!" he said emphatically. "Couldn't have been better—unless you had done it yourself," he ended gallantly.
Aunt Jane's look cleared, and then became a little confused—under something that danced in the eyes bent upon her.
"I must go do my work," she said.
"And leave me to my Juliet?"
"Julian, I suppose you mean," Aunt Jane corrected him kindly.
"He's Romeo—of the house of Montague!" he said dreamily.
She stared a little. He waved a hand.
"Go away, Aunt Jane, and do your work. You have disturbed me—even more than usual. I want to collect my thoughts!"
She went out almost soberly, turning it in her mind, on the way to her office. She had upset him and she was a little remorseful! She ought not to have let him run on like that! There was no telling that he would not have a setback.... And they needed Suite A for Dr. Carmon's new patient Friday.... He had said Herman Medfield was well enough to go home—that he would be better off at home.
She entered the office—and stopped.
On a chair across the room, was a long, light box.
Aunt Jane almost fancied she had been dreaming, and had never opened that box.... She contemplated it and went over to it slowly—and looked at her desk, where the great flaming roses gave out their fragrance.... She went back to the box and took it up slowly, and undid the tape.
It was filled to the brim with roses—great pink-and-white heads glowed through the transparent waxed paper at her—and on topof the paper lay a card—with the name uppermost——
"Dr. Frederic H. Carmon."
Aunt Jane stared at it.
She reached out a hand to it—as if fascinated and almost afraid—and took it up and turned it over slowly.... There was no writing! She laid it back with a little quick sigh of relief—and stared down at it.... Presently a shrewd look of amusement overspread the stupefaction in her face and she nodded to the little card and took it up and carried it to her desk and unlocked a drawer—moving the great flaming roses to reach it. She dropped the card beside the other one that lay there—and the amusement in her face grew to soft chuckles that filled all the spaces in her roundness.
When she had arranged the pink-and-white roses and carried them to her desk and placed them opposite the flaming ones, she stood back and surveyed them—and shook her head—and smiled radiantly to them.
A man, who had come quietly down the hall, stood in the open door of the office. He watched her a minute.
He cleared his throat circumspectly.
She turned swiftly—and saw him—and moved a reproachful hand to the flowers.
"You never ought to have done it!"
He smiled on the roses complacently and removed his gloves.
"Like 'em?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I haven't any call to like them—or not to like them!" It was severe disapproval. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
"I'm not!" He looked at them with satisfaction. He was whistling softly. "I didn't know you wanted flowers—or I'd have sent them before."
He had turned—his glance was on her face.
Something in the glance sent Aunt Jane hastily across the room. She straightened the furniture a little and came back to the desk and looked at the bunches of roses on either side, regarding them impartially.
"I hadn't ought to want flowers—goodness knows!" she said slowly. "I see enough of 'em, around every day, to make any one sick of them for life." She paused and studied the pink-and-white blossoms.
"Somehow, it's different—when they're your own! I guess maybe I did need to have them sent to me—so I'd know how folks feel inside—when I open their boxes for them and they look in and see the flowers and see somebody's card on top—somebody that's thought about them—somebody that loves 'em!" she ended it triumphantly and happily and smiled—sharing it with him.
Dr. Carmon looked at the two great bunches of flowers—and grunted—and went out.