XI
I told them they must have a doctor,” Perkins explained to Franz, “and in spite of my mother's objections I called one in. Mother has been dosing her for a week now.”
Young Perkins and his mother practically lived with Margaret, now that Geoff was gone, and it was on the second day of their installment as members of her household, when Perkins, asserting himself in defiance of the paternal mandate, announced his intention of summoning a physician—“Right off, and with no more dependence on luck,” by which it is to be inferred that his mother's remedies did not inspire him with much confidence.
“He is with her?” Franz inquired, having just come in.
“Yes, if it hadn't been for my interference, I am certain my mother would have kept on dosing Margaret with her nasty home-made concoctions until doomsday. Poor Margaret would never have rebelled: she would have swallowed the stuff until it killed her rather than wound my mother by showing lack of faith.”
At this juncture they were joined by the doctor, a gray puffy man, reeking of stale tobacco smoke and staler drugs, who took the ills flesh is heir to as a personal grievance.
“Well?” Perkins interrogated him.
The doctor emitted a sound that could have been either a grunt or groan: “It won't do,” he said gloomily; “she must be sent South. She has not the stamina for this climate. It's using her up. Unless something is done she will not live through the winter, I'll stake my reputation.”
“Then she should go to Florida?” Perkins questioned.
“I said she must be sent South,—if you are interested in keeping her alive—and I suppose you are.”
“Good lord, yes!” Perkins gasped.
“I don't say her illness is critical at its present stage, but if you are going to do what I recommend, don't put it off. I don't want to be blamed. Good night.”
He snorted angrily at the inoffensive Perkins, picked up his hat and medicine-case and departed, leaving the young men staring apprehensively at each other.
Perkins jerked his head in the direction the doctor had gone. “He's a confounded fool! That's what he is. If he had waited a minute, I'd have said so. He doesn't have to scare us to death.”
Franz was busy with his thoughts. How could she go and how could she stay threatened by danger? The problem swung between the two alternatives and refused to be solved.
Suddenly Perkins cried joyously: “I've got it, Franz! You must marry her right off and take her South yourself—otherwise she will be left to the mercy of her brother. You love her,—I know all about it, old fellow. I saw it by accident and I take just stacks of interest in you young people.”
He put his hand on Franz's shoulder. His demeanor was both patronizing and affectionate. He looked as cupid might, grown to sturdy manhood, so thrilled was he by his purpose.
“If you are the least diffident, I'll adjust it. I'd. dearly love to, and won't it be a jolly little earthquake for Mr. Geoffrey Ballard,—won't it?” And he hopped around gleefully, proving there can be two good and sufficient reasons for a man's acts, namely—to please himself, and to annoy his fellow: and who shall determine which is sweeter?
Franz had felt his heart leap at the suggestion, but what would Margaret say?
Perkins plunged ahead vigorously: “What will you do; will you wait for Geoff to come and spoil it all?”
Before Franz could answer Margaret herself entered the room, accompanied by Mrs. Perkins. Instinctively they turned to her. Never had she looked so slight and fragile.
With an anxious throb of his heart Franz started toward her with outstretched hands. Perkins was no fool. He stepped into the hall, motioning his mother to follow. Then he shut the door, remarking: “I guess they would appreciate being by themselves,” and he winked with peculiar emphasis.
Left with Margaret, Franz arranged a chair for her. She watched his rather clumsy placing of wraps and pillows with an amused smile.
“You will make a baby of me, and I shall be a bother always,” she said. She was pathetically grateful for the slightest display of love or devotion.
“How do you feel, Margaret?” Franz asked.
Margaret reclined languidly in her seat. The excitement of getting down-stairs had passed and she felt tired and weak.
“Tell me about yourself, Franz,” she said. “I haven't seen you in days. To-night I insisted that they should let me dress, I wished to see you so much.”
“What did the doctor tell you, Margaret?”
“That I must go South, but”—hastily—“I can not do that—I can not leave you!”
“But, if it is for the best, dear?”
“Surely it can not be best for me to be cut off from my friends, when they are so few—” She spoke in a frightened voice, as if appalled at the idea. “I should simply die of loneliness.” She glanced up at him appealingly, her lips quivering. “You would not have me go, would you, Franz? I am such a coward. What would become of me, without you?”
“I shall go with you, Margaret, if I may,” he said softly. “It all rests with you, dear. The grief of your going, if you went alone, would be quite as hard for me to bear as for you.”
For a space she was silent, then her reserve gave way entirely.
“If I go, Franz, it must be with you. I can not leave myself open to my brother's persecutions—I can not endure them! The doctor said—but he told you, too?”
“Yes.”
“I wish to live”—clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. “I never before minded what happened to me, life is so hard—but your love has changed everything. I wish to live for your sake—not for mine.”
“Are you willing to trust yourself to me?” Franz gently interposed.
Margaret's head half rested on the chair-back, half upon his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and the hands he held within his own burned feverishly. At last she whispered:
“Take me with you. It is best we go together. I am sick—sick—and he is killing me. If you would have me, you must take me now....”
The next day as Philip was at work, Franz entered his room unannounced. Seeing who it was, Philip put down his pen, turning from the pile of manuscript over which he had been toiling.
“Are you busy, Philip?” Franz asked.
“Not very. Why?”
“Because I should like a moment's talk with you.”
Philip nodded.
“Just knock those books off a corner of the bed and sit down—dump them on the floor. What is it, old fellow?”
Franz, having complied with the suggestion, said: “You know that Margaret is ill?”
“I knew she had a cold. I hope it's not serious.”
“Her physician advises that she spend the remainder of the winter in the South. This she will do as soon as she recovers sufficiently.”
Again Philip nodded.
“It's very unexpected, isn't it? I should consider it risky.”
“She is not to go alone.”
“Oh, I presume Mrs. Perkins is to go with her?”
“It would not be paying much of a compliment to your intelligence if I thought to surprise you by saying that I love Margaret.”
“Precious little,” Philip admitted laconically.
“Well, I shall surprise you. We are to be married immediately. The situation is so grave as to permit of no delay. Her health and the probable reappearance of her brother make it necessary.”
“Bless mel I never figured on this.” Philip looked his amazement. “What will you do then, Franz?”
“When she is able to travel, I suppose it means Florida, or the Bermudas.”
Philip had risen and gathered himself together while making the circuit of the room.
“I declare, I didn't congratulate you, did I? To be sure, old fellow, the thought of losing you is not agreeable.”
“If you will, Philip, you can be of great service to me.”
“I was about to volunteer,” said Philip heartily, “but you swept me squarely off my feet.”
On the authority of Perkins—“It was a mighty jolly wedding.”
The ceremony was performed in Margaret's own room and during its progress she lay upon a lounge, looking as fair as the lilies-of-the-valley in her hands, which Perkins had given her, after liberally bedewing them with his tears dropped in sentimental secrecy.
The sun was sinking far across the white fields, and the gold of its dying flames stole in through the windows, lighting up the room, as Franz, standing at Margaret's side, gave her his name and the protection of his love.
Mrs. Perkins and Franz's mother wept profusely, and Perkins disgraced himself in his own estimation by sobbing aloud in stifled tones be vainly sought to suppress on peril of choking. He finally retreated to the hall, where he encountered Russell with a limp handkerchief—“making an ass of herself, too.”
A little later Philip drew the curtains in front of the windows to exclude the darkening sky and Perkins said, “When you get screwed up to it a wedding is really more festive than a funeral, though they seem to have much in common. Now I am in a measure familiar with the ordeal, I venture to predict this has been the most blissful day I shall ever know—when one of my dearest friends is married to another of my dearest friends.”
Here he had difficulty with his words.
“Doubtless you all think me a driveling idiot, but I feel like I don't know what—and I can't really help it.”
Everybody laughed at this and Philip shook hands with him, saying he was the finest fellow in the world, while Margaret bestowed upon him a generous share of her bouquet. The gift bore with it a grateful little speech that caused him to weep afresh.
It was very late, indeed, when they separated.
“I assure you,” Perkins informed Philip when they had reached the Perkins home, “I assure you, it has been the most satisfactory event in my life, and it's a source of stupendous joy for me to reflect that my dear cousin Geoff is destined to undergo a severe mental shock in consequence. I think I am entitled to all the comfort I can get.”
Philip smiled appreciatively.
“What a funny little fellow you are! Such a good chap, too,” he added.
“Well, I am glad she has Franz to look after her, and he will have the means to go on with his studies,” continued Perkins.
“He is fortunate,” Philip replied. “We so seldom get what we want—generally it's what we don't want that comes to us.”
Perkins looked at him curiously, his head well to one side and his chubby hands buried in the depths of his trousers pockets.
“I say—what's up? Aren't you happy?”
“I am blue, and not so decent as I should be. I am always and everlastingly thinking of myself. I am wretched—but you know what's wrong with me, so don't discuss it. I can't stand it.”
“As you prefer, Philip. Still, don't you believe it will be all right in the end?”
“It's not the future that troubles me. It's what may occur while I am flat on my back. I am fairly desperate!”
Perkins gazed at him sorrowfully. Philip added:
“I can't seem very generous to you when I flop into the dumps on no greater provocation than seeing those who are contented and at peace. My nature is not sweetened by adversity, it's being pickled in it.” He struck the floor savagely with the heel of his shoe. “I feel like running off from everything, and if I could include my miserable self among what I left behind, I'd not remain undecided.”
“I hope you won't go any place, Philip!” Perkins said in alarm. “What the dickens will become of me? It will be absolutely forsaken when Franz and Margaret go.”
“You will see all you want of me. I shall unquestionably stay for a time at least.”
“Why—have you been actually thinking of leaving?”
Philip smiled grimly.
“Don't distress yourself; you can safely depend on having all you desire of my cheerful company. And now if you'll help me into my overcoat, I'll start home.”
No sooner was Philip gone than Perkins took from his waistcoat pocket, where he had secreted them, the lilies-of-the-valley Margaret had given him. As he gazed at them a telltale moisture mounted to his eyes. He could only shake his head mournfully and deposit them again—not next his heart—but near an equally important organ and one he knew more of, even though he was in doubt as to its exact location.
Poor Perkins! He was learning that a disinterested love has its griefs. It's not unmitigated bliss to witness another's rapture.