Chapter 14

CHAPTER XXXVTHE SWAYING BALANCE

CHAPTER XXXV

THE SWAYING BALANCE

Dr. Melton was at the top of the stairs as the other man came bounding up. “Where in God’s name have you been?” he demanded. “Did you start as soon as my messenger—”

“No messenger came—only ’Stashie just now. I started the instant she—”

“Have you the paper—the contract—whatever it—”

Rankin showed a flash of white in his pocket. “Is she able to sign it?”

“Oh, shemust! She won’t have an instant’s peace until she does. She has been wild because you were so late in—”

Their hurried, broken colloquy was cut short by a nurse who came to Dr. Melton, saying, “The patient is always asking if the gentleman who is to—”

“Yes, yes; he is here.” The doctor motioned her to precede them. “Go in; you’re needed as a witness.”

He held Rankin back an instant at the door. “Remember! No heroics! Just have the signing done as quickly as possible and get out!” His little wizened face looked ghastly in the dim light of the hall, but his voice was firm, and his hand did not tremble.

Rankin followed him into the bedroom, which was filled with a strong odor of antiseptics. The nurse turned on the electric light, shading it with her hand so that the light fell only on the lower part of the bed, leaving Lydia’s head in the shadow.

She lay very straight and stark, as though, thought Rankin despairingly, she were already dead. Her right arm was out over the sheet, her thin hand nerveless. Her facewas very white, her lips swollen and bleeding as though she had bitten them repeatedly. She was absolutely motionless, lying on her back with closed eyes. At the slight sound made by the men in entering, she opened her eyes and looked at them. Every vestige of color dropped out of Rankin’s face. Her eyes were alive, sane, exalted—Lydia’s own eyes again.

He was holding the paper open in his hand, and without a word knelt down by the bed, offering it to her mutely. Their eyes met in a long gaze. The doctor and nurse looked away from this mute communion. Rankin put a pen in Lydia’s fingers and held up the paper. With, a faint, sighing breath, loud in the silent room, she raised her hand. It fell to the bed again. Dr. Melton then knelt beside her, put his own sinewy, corded fingers around it and guided it to the paper. The few lines were traced. Lydia’s hand dropped and her eyes closed. Rankin stood up to go.

The nurse turned off the light and the room was again in a half obscurity, the deep, steady voice of the rain coming in through the open windows, the sweet summer-night smells mingling with the acrid odor of chemicals, Lydia lying straight and stark under the sheet—but now her eyes were open, shining, fixed on Rankin. Their light was the last he saw as he closed the door behind him.

After a time the doctor came out and joined Rankin waiting at the head of the stairs. He looked very old and tired, but the ghastly expression of strain was replaced with a flickering restlessness. He came up to Rankin, blinking rapidly, and touched him on the arm. “Look here!” he whispered. “Her pulse has gone down from a hundred and fifty to a hundred and thirty.”

He sat down on the top step, clasped his hands about his knees, and leaned his white head against the balustrade. He looked like some small, weary, excited old child. “Lord, Rankin! Sit down when you get a chance!” he whispered. “If you’d been through what I have! And you needn’t try to get me to add another word to what I’ve just told you. I don’t dare! It may mean nothing,you know. It may very likely mean nothing. Good Heavens! The mental sensitiveness of women at this time! It’s beyond belief. I never get used to the miracle of it. Everything turns on it—everything! If the pulse should go down ten more now, I should—Oh, Heaven bless that crazy Celt for getting you here! Good Lord! If you hadn’t come when you did! I don’t see what could have become of the messenger I sent—why, hours ago—I knew that nothing could go right if you weren’t—is that the door?” He sprang up and sank back again—“I told the nurse to report as soon as there was any change—I was afraid if I stayed in the room she would feel the twitching of my damned nerves—yes, really—it’s so—she’s in a state when a feather’s weight—suppose ’Stashie hadn’t brought you! I couldn’t have kept Madeleine off much longer—God! ifMadeleinehad gone into that room, I—Lydia—but nobody told ’Stashie to go! It must have been an inspiration. I thought of course my messenger—I was expecting you every instant. She’s been crouching out here in the hall all night, not venturing even to ask a question, until I caught sight of her eyes—she loves Lydia too! I told her then the baby had come and that her mistress had no chance unless you were here. She must have—when did she—”

Rankin gave a sound like a sob, and leaned against the wall. He had not stirred before since the doctor’s first words. “You don’t mean there’shope?” he whispered, “any hope at all?”

The doctor sprang at him and clapped his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t say it! I didn’t say it!”

The door behind them opened, and the nurse stepped out with a noiseless briskness. The doctor walked toward her steadily and listened to her quick, low-toned report. Then he nodded, and she stepped back into the bedroom and shut the door. He stood staring at the floor, one hand at his lips.

Rankin made an inarticulate murmur of appeal. His face glared white through the obscurity of the hall.

The older man went back to him, and looked up earnestly into his eyes. “Yes; there’s every hope,” he said. He added, with a brave smile: “For you and Lydia there’s every hope in the world. For me, there’s the usual lot of fathers.”

CHAPTER XXXVIANOTHER DAY BEGINS

CHAPTER XXXVI

ANOTHER DAY BEGINS

They started. From below came a wail of fright. As they listened the sound came nearer and nearer. “That’s Ariadne—a bad dream—get her quiet, for the Lord’s sake.”

“Where is she sleeping?”

“In the room next the parlor.”

Rankin gave an exclamation, and leaped down the stairs. At the foot he was met by a little figure in sleeping-drawers. “Favver! Favver!” she sobbed, holding up her arms.

Rankin caught her up and held her close. “You promised you wouldn’t get so afraid of dreams, little daughter,” he said in a low, tender voice of reproach.

“But this was a nawful one!” wept Ariadne. “I fought I heard a lot of voices, men’s and ladies’ as mad—Oh! awful mad—and loud!” She went on incoherently that she had been too frightened to stir, even though after a while she dreamed that the front door slammed and they all went away. But then she wastoofrightened, and came out to find Favver.

Rankin took her back to her bed, and sat down beside it, keeping one big hand about the trembling child’s cold little fingers. “It was only a bad dream, Ariadne. Just go to sleep now. Father’ll sit here till you do.”

“You won’t let them come back?” asked the child, drawing long, shaken breaths.

“No,” he said quietly.

“You’ll always be close, to take care of me?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And of Muvver and ’Stashie?”

There was a pause.

Ariadne spoke in grieved astonishment. “Why, ofcourseof Muvver and ’Stashie, Favver.”

Rankin took a sudden great breath. “I hope so, Ariadne.”

“Well, youcanif you want to,” the child gravely gave her assent.

She said no more for a time, clutching tightly to his hand. Then, “Favver.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I fink I could go to sleep better if I had my bunny.”

“Yes, dear,” said the man patiently; “where is he?”

“I fink he’s under ve chair where my clothes are—vebigchair. ’Stashie lets me put my clothes on ve biggest chair.”

The man fumbled about in the dark. Then, “Here’s your bunny, Ariadne.”

The child murmured something drowsily unintelligible. The man took his seat again by the bed. There was a pause. The child’s breathing grew long and regular. The rain sounded loud in the silence.

In the distance a street-car rattled noisily by. Ariadne started up with a scream: “Favver! Favver!”

“Right here, dear. Just the trolley-car.”

“It ’minded me of ve mad ladies’ voices,” explained Ariadne apologetically, breathing quickly. She added: “Vat was such anawfuldream, Favver. I wonder could I have your watch to hear tick in my hand to go me to sleep.”

“Yes, dear; but only for to-night because of the bad dream.”

There were little nestling noises, gradually quieting down. Then, sleepily:

“Favver, please.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I fink I could goallto sleep if you’d pit your head down on my pillow next my bunny.”

A stir in the darkness, and an instant’s quiet, followed by, “Why, Favver, what makes your face all over water?”

There was no answer.

“And your beard is as wet as—” She broke off to explain to herself: “Oh, it’s rain, of tourse. I forgot it’s raining.NowI remember how toreallygo all to sleep. I did before. I listen to it going patter, patter, patter, patter—” The little voice died away.

There was no sound at all in the room but the swift, light voice of the watch calling out that Time, Time, Time can cure all, can cure all, can cure all—and outside the brooding murmur of the rain.

A faint, clear gray began to show at the windows.

THE END

ROMAIN ROLLAND’S

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE

DAWN - MORNING - YOUTH - REVOLT

Translated by GILBERT CANNAN.

600 pp. $1.50 net; by mail, $1.62.

It commences with vivid episodes of this musician’s childhood, his fears, fancies, and troubles, and his almost uncanny musical sense. He plays before the Grand Duke at seven, but he is destined for greater things. An idol of the hour, in some ways suggesting Richard Strauss, tries in vain to wreck his faith in his career. Early love episodes follow, and at the close the hero, like Wagner, has to fly, a hopeful exile.

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THE MARKET-PLACE

ANTOINETTE - THE HOUSE

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A writer in theLondon Daily Mailcomments on the French volumes here translated as follows:—“In ‘The Market-Place,’ we are with the hero in his attempt to earn his living and to conquer Paris. The author introduces us to the numberless ‘society’ circles in Paris and all the cliques of so-called musicians in pages of superb and bitter irony and poetic fire. Christophe becomes famous. In the next volume, Antoinette is the sister of Christophe’s great friend, Olivier. She loves Christophe.... This, the best volume of the series, is a flawless gem. ‘The House’ introduces us to the friends and enemies of the young musician. They gravitate around Christophe and Olivier, amid the noisy and enigmatic whirl of Parisian life.”

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This is a neat, crisp, matter-of-fact account of our Navy, with an occasional illuminating anecdote of famous court-martials and such. It has been passed by high authorities and its publication officially sanctioned. TheContentsincludes: Naval History—The Navy’s Organization—The Navy’s Personnel—Man-of-War in Commission—Classes of Ships in the Navy—Description—High Explosives; Torpedoes; Mines; Aeroplanes—Designing and Building a Warship; Dry Docks—The National Defense.

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A trained observer’s graphic description of the English Law Courts, of their ancient customs yet up-to-date methods; of the lives and activities of the modern barrister and solicitor—the “K. C.,” the “Junior,” the “Devil”—and of the elaborate etiquette, perpetuated by the Inns of Court, which still inflexibly rules them, despite the tendencies of the times and growth of socialism.

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SIXTH EDITION, ENLARGED AND WITH PORTRAITS

HALE’S DRAMATISTS OF TO-DAY

ROSTAND, HAUPTMANN, SUDERMANN,PINERO, SHAW, PHILLIPS, MAETERLINCK

ByProf. Edward Everett Hale, Jr., of Union College.With gilt top, $1.50 net; by mail, $1.60.

Since this work first appeared in 1905, Maeterlinck’sSister Beatrice,The Blue BirdandMary Magdalene, Rostand’sChanteclerand Pinero’sMid-channelandThe Thunderbolt—among the notable plays by some of Dr. Hale’s dramatists—have been acted here. Discussions of them are added to this new edition, as are considerations of Bernard Shaw’s and Stephen Phillips’ latest plays. The author’s papers on Hauptmann and Sudermann, with slight additions, with his “Note on Standards of Criticism,” “Our Idea of Tragedy,” and an appendix of all the plays of each author, with dates of their first performance or publication, complete the volume.

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