5
The patient improved. Miss Mary watched her drop into a quiet sleep, then flew over to see the doctor. She perched on the arm of a big chair; it wouldn’t do to sit in it when one is tired; it was too comfortable—
“What are you doing here? Anything wrong?”
“No. It’s that poor man.”
The doctor chuckled. Floyd Garrison, spoilt child of Fortune, husband of the prettiest woman of New York’s pretty women, belonging to an exclusive set, the happy father of a fine boy, and here comes this child of the gutter and calls him ‘a poor man.’ Ha! Ha!
“The house is going to ruin, the food spoilt; the butler steals his neckties, stockings, handkerchiefs; the cook falsifies the bills.”
“Well, how can we cure that?”
“By reforming the household; would it appear obtrusive?”
“I don’t know, but he’s a nice fellow and you might try.”
“Thanks, that’s what I came for. I want to make you my partner in crime.”
“Wretch.” He flung a writing pad at her, which she dodged with great dexterity, and flew out.
That night the dinner was uneatable. Floyd looked helpless.
“Things are going badly, since my wife’s illness.”
Here was Mary’s chance.
“Will you let me attend to that?”
Floyd thanked her, hoped she wouldn’t bother too much, put his car at her disposal, then followed her softly up the stairs, feeling that he had managed the house very well. Julie was asleep.
“Do you think I could go to the club for a couple of hours—that is, if I’m not wanted?”
“Oh yes, go; it will do you good. Take the latch key and come in as quietly as possible.”
The next morning Floyd enjoyed a good breakfast, waited on by a very pretty girl in black, with a dainty cap and apron. He had never liked a waitress—too much like a tearoom, but Ellen, the new maid, didn’t give him a chance to miss the butler; she hovered around watching Miss Mary, responding to her quick glances. This amused Floyd. Martin must come to dinner; he’d fire off witticisms about being under petticoat government.
Ellen was a girl-mother; her sweetheart promised to marry her, but he didn’t. Miss Mary saw her through her trouble, took her baby to Bridget, the wife of a coal heaver, who had seven babies. Mary encouraged Bridget to go on having them, but the cost of living was too high even for a coal heaver. She took the poor “bastard” to her wonderful bosom, and nursed it, happy because she didn’t have to dry up her milk. Mary put Bridget in the kitchen, Ellen in the dining-room; the little brat was smuggled in, and was so quiet, Mary was sure he knew he wasn’t wanted. She put a neighbor who was also “under obligations” in charge of the seven babies.
Floyd was allowed to go in every morning and sit with his wife; he noticed Mary remained in the room. He said the same thing, mechanically, every time.
“You feel better this morning, don’t you?” The atmosphere of the sick room struck him dumb; that ghostly silent creature lying there wasn’t Julie.
He sat at the breakfast table—well cooked, well served. There was a flutter on the stairs. Mary flew in and sat opposite him, giving him a quick glance.
“Miss Mary, we should have a night nurse.”
“Oh, no, there is no necessity of another nuisance in the house.”
“But, you get no sleep.”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
“I hear you moving about at night.”
“Oh, do you? I’m sorry. I’ll get a pair of soft slippers.”
He went up as usual to see Julie. Mary met him at the door.
She said in a low tone:
“Just a minute and don’t stay.”
“You feel better this morning, don’t you?”
Her eyes were very wide open; she was looking beyond him; he turned; there was nobody in the room. Miss Mary was at the telephone calling the doctor.
The sick woman raised herself in the bed, holding out her arms like a child who wants to be taken up. He bent to lift her; she pushed him away with unbelievable force.
“I don’t want you. I want—Martin.”
Miss Mary came flying into the room.
“What is it?” said Floyd.
“She’s delirious again.”
The cry never ceased; over and over again, supplicating, in a pitiable voice:
“I want Martin!”
When the doctor came, she caught at him eagerly.
“What do you want, dear lady; tell me?”
“I want Martin!”
Floyd’s anguish was terrible; he was leaning against the door on the verge of a collapse. Mary signaled the doctor, who took him by the arm and led him into the next room.
“Is it Martin Steele?” said the doctor.
“Send for him.”
“I will not. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” Floyd’s voice was harsh. He was on his feet in a frenzy of rage.
The voice came again, louder, more despairing.
“I want Martin!”
“Do something, for God’s sake!” cried Floyd.
“There is nothing to be done but wait.”
The doctor went back into the room. The cry continued. Miss Mary came in.
“What is it, is she worse?”
“No, but the doctor says, ‘telephone.’”
Floyd took up the receiver. What could Martin do in that room? “No! no!”
“Martin! Martin!” It came again, that cry; it was terrible.
Mary put the receiver in his hand. He called up the hotel.
The answer came, “Out.”
He tried the club.
“Yes, Mr. Steele was there.”
“Who is it?”
“Floyd.”
“Julie?” came like a shot through the ’phone.
“She is about the same.”
Floyd heard the quick gasp of relief; wonderful how a wire can bear witness.
“She has intermittent attacks of fever, calls for her grandfather, her mother; she called your name once.”
“Mine?”
“It means nothing, of course, but the doctor thinks if she sees someone outside the family—”
In a short time, Martin was there. Floyd went down to meet him; neither spoke. Floyd led the way upstairs. They stopped at the door of the sick room, and heard the cry of the delirious woman.
“Martin! I want Martin!”
With a bound Martin flung himself on his knees beside the bed.
“Julie! Julie!”
She opened her eyes, heavy with fever; they wandered about, seeking! seeking!
“Julie!”
She lifted herself into his arms.
He held her close, whispering caressing words; she listened, her eyes fixed by the power of his; soon the tired lids drooped; she slept.
Martin felt the fluttering of her heart. He had no sense of time, place; the world was unpeopled; he was the only man, she the only woman. The doctor’s watch registered forty minutes. Mary looked at Floyd. His eyes never left them; his wife in his friend’s arms. The doctor laid the sleeping woman gently back on the pillow. Martin dropped his head down on the bed, helpless; Miss Mary led him downstairs; he fell in a heap in the chair. He was conscious now of Floyd, not the friend—a stranger, with a drawn face, an icy voice.
“What is there between you and my wife?”
The ticking of a clock became distinctly sharp. Should he tell the truth now? No; it would make it impossible for him to come again; he would wait until she got well. He put his hands on Floyd’s shoulders, looking him straight in the face.
Floyd repeated his question.
“What is there between you and my wife?”
“What there has always been, a deep affection.”
“You are trying to steal her from me.”
“How can you think that; you told me yourself she called the names of others.”
“I lied. She called no one but you.”
Martin’s face was telling tales; he went over to the fireplace.
“You are unjust to her, but, if you persist, I won’t come again.” His voice faltered; his eyes filled up. Floyd had never been able to resist him.
“You two are my only friends; if I lose you there is nobody, nobody.”
He went to the door, then turned and put out his hand. They were friends again—to all appearances.