The girl Mary remembered had changed, more than the ten years accounted for. There was nothing left of her youth. Her body was painfully thin, a mere wisp, and the tight-fitting black dress emphasized each sharp angle. There were great hollows in her face under the high cheek-bones and in her neck, round which she wore a white lace collar fastened by a large cameo brooch. Earrings to match the brooch, too heavy for her face, brought out her dead pallor. Her brown eyes were dimmed and slightly bloodshot from weeping. But her hair kept its vivid colour and luxuriance.
Seeing Mary alone, she had stopped—stood there, looking sullen, biting her lips. They gazed at one another. Mary was conscious of a remote astonishment that Nora should look so angry.... Voices sounded in the hall.
"There's the doctor," said Mary hurriedly, getting up. "Nora, how long has—has he been ill exactly, do you know?"
"Since he came here Thursday afternoon—he was sick then but he wouldn't let me send for a doctor—I wanted to—"
Her voice died away, again she had that sullen defensive look.
"I know. It isn't your fault—I'm sure you did everything you could," Mary said quickly in a neutral tone, and went out into the hall. She felt extremely uncomfortable in Nora's presence, but there was no time to think about that now.
Sayre was a young thickset man, with cool dark eyes, full of energy. After seeing the patient, he sat down in the study and talked with Mary. Finding her calm and alert, he explained the treatment he proposed to give, a new method—plenty of air and food, and cold baths. He cordially assented to calling Dr. Lowell, whom he had met professionally. He thought they would need another nurse, as the patient must be watched day and night. Mary eagerly asked if she could not take the night-duty, but he shook his head; he preferred a trained person, and it would take two of them to handle the baths. But she could be on hand—when her husband was conscious he would want her there. He was curt and grave and used no soothing phrases. Mary did not ask what he thought of the outcome; she could tell from his manner what he thought. He went away, saying that he would send for the night-nurse and would return himself about midnight. She might telegraph to Dr. Lowell if she wished.
Lavery had gone back to finish his dinner. When he came up Mary was in the sickroom. The nurse had to give some medicine; twice a restless movement of the patient had spilt it. Mary slipped her arm under Laurence's head and held him still while the medicine was given. She smoothed back his tumbled hair and laid her cool hand on his forehead. For a moment he was quieter; the low muttering ceased, his eyelids closed. She was on her knees by the bedside; and holding himso, close to her, suddenly she felt stabbed to the heart, she could not breathe for the pain.... Then Lavery came in. Laurence began again that murmuring and tossed away from her. Presently she got up and went out.
She sank into one of the deep chairs in the study, leaned back and closed her eyes till she could control the nervous trembling that shook her. Lavery, lighting one of his thick black cigars, came and sat down near her. He moved stiffly and a half-stifled groan escaped him. She looked at his face, pale and puffy with bluish shadows under the eyes.
"You're tired out."
"Well, I'm tired—I was up last night a good deal," he admitted.
"You must go home now and rest, there's nothing more to do here. The doctor's sending another nurse and he'll be in again himself.... You've been very good."
"Oh," he said brusquely, "I guess it will be all right."
"Well, it may be a long illness, you know—weeks. Now—I want to ask you—" she frowned and gazed at him haughtily. "Here we all are, you see—the two nurses and me, and there'll be special cooking, and—Well, how will she manage? It's her house, I suppose. I don't see how we can all—"
"Nothing else to be done. She has a servant, I know, and you could hire another one if you want. But she'll want to do something herself, she,—oh, well, hang it, she's devoted to Laurence."
"I suppose so.... You know her, don't you, pretty well?"
"Oh, yes, I've been here a good deal. Laurencehas always had his rooms here ever since I've known him—it's quieter, you see, and—well, Mary, I guess you knew about it, didn't you?"
"I did, and I didn't," said Mary clearly. "Long ago I did."
"Well, yes—he never said much to me, only that it was an old—affair. Of course I could see how it was—more a responsibility, to him, than—"
"Oh, I understand, you needn't worry, so far as I'm concerned," said Mary, coldly. "I just want Laurence to get well, and everybody will have to do the best they can. It's—well, I can't talk to her tonight, she's so upset, but I don't want her to feel that I've just walked in and taken possession—after all, it's her house. She looks so—afraid, and angry at me too—I can't help it, she ought to know I have to be here. But I don't want to make it harder for her than—oh, well, I'll have to talk to her. It doesn't matter very much anyway, what she feels or what I feel. It doesn't seem very important."
"No, it doesn't," said Lavery absently.
They sat in silence for awhile. He pulled at his cigar, and brooded with half-shut eyes. Mary lay back in the big chair, relaxed ... and a feeling of the unreality of all about her made it seem that some bridge between her and the world had dropped suddenly.... There was only a tremendous vacancy, stillness, emptiness, pressed upon her....
Then into the void came a hoarse choking cry from the sick man. She started up.