CHAPTER XXVII
Sally Miller was able to walk a little now—a very little—but firmly, and without the effort and the pain that the journey around the table had cost her in the old days. She was living with Miss Whimple, who had insisted on it from the day the doctors had declared the girl fit to be removed from the hospital. There was no certainty of an absolute cure: the doctors could not promise that, but, with every month, the hope of ultimate recovery strengthened. She had been a long time in the hospital, nearly two years, before the signs of improvement were marked enough to admit of encouragement. She was a good patient, Sally: her cheerfulness and animation, her belief and trust in the doctors and the nurses won their hearts. There were many black hours for her; home-sickness, pain, doubt, these were hard things to bear. In the still of the night she often lay sleepless, fighting with the sorrow and longing that oppresses, and striving to repress the exclamations that pain brought to her lips. And she won. "She always was a winner," William used to say, "and always will be."
There were no lack of visitors to Sally during her stay in the hospital. Her own relations made frequent trips to the city to see her. Miss Whimple was her most constant caller, and the next was—not William. He did manage to call often, but not so often as Lucien, and, somehow, Sally began to look forward to Lucien's visits with delightful thrills of anticipation. Miss Whimple smiled about it, and William laughed. Sally smiled, too, but, such a smile! She enjoyed William's visits immensely. He was seldom serious with her, and he always had funny stories to tell. In fact, he clothed the most commonplace incidents of the day with humour when he spoke of them, and shamelessly invented stories when he had no actual foundations on which to build them. And Sally always knew when he was spinning yarns, and William knew that she did. Miss Whimple was rather disappointed over William's attitude toward the girl, and so expressed herself to Epstein one day. The old comedian displayed unwonted heat in his answer. "Such foolishness," he said sharply, "give the lad a chance. There is a great career before William. If he begins thinking of love, or thinks he is thinking seriously of love now, it will be the end for him. I hope you have not been trying to put any such nonsensical ideas into his head."
Miss Whimple did not answer. The gruffness of the old man hurt a little. He was quick to understand her silence, and after a while said gently, "I beg your pardon: I did not mean to be angry, I—I—the boy and his future are very dear to me—you—I——"
She laid a hand on his arm. "I know—I know," she said. "I'm a foolish old maid. You are right about William, but, sometimes, those who have lost much dream pleasant dreams and build fairy castles for those who help to make their sorrow easier to bear." And then they talked of other things, of William's future, of Epstein's success, of Tommy Watson's boy.
Meanwhile, Sally was sitting on the verandah of Miss Whimple's home, going over again to herself all the memories of her first meeting with Lucien. She had been three months in the hospital when William had brought him to her, and was sitting up in bed dressing dolls for a Christmas-tree for the infant patients in the institution. William came to the bedside with his usual easy air. Lucien hung back a little, shy, embarrassed, and blushing. William took hold of his sleeve and dragged him forward. "Allow me, Miss Sally Miller," he said, with a smile, "to introduce to you Lucien Torrance—Lucien Wellington Torrance, to give him his full name. Mister Torrance—Miss Miller."
They shook hands gravely, and eyed each other in silence.
"This," went on William, in a more serious tone, "this, Sally, is the chap I used to think was a mutt—honest—until I woke up one day and found that I was it. I was the M-U-T-T," he spelled out the word, "and Lucien had me beaten a mile for brains and bravery."
Lucien was blushing furiously now. "Don't," he pleaded.
William ignored the remark, and smiling, again proceeded, "Honest, Sally, he's a pippin, is Lucien. Why, first thing we know he'll be the boss architect of Canada, and the real thing in inventions too. He's always trying his hand at something; and he'll come out ahead, will Lucien."
Sally murmured a hope that he would.
"Oh, you needn't be afraid to speak up, Sally," said William, gaily. "You can't phase Lucien. He'll listen to you until the cows come home—he's a good listener, and," he laid one arm affectionately on Lucien's shoulder, "he's a good doer, too, is my friend Lucien."
Lucien came frequently after that, and often alone. He never had much to say, and yet Sally felt after his visits as though he had said a great deal. He thought much of her, and the first practical outcome of his thinking was the invention of an ingenious little table that could be mounted on the bed, and moved easily by the patient, so that she could use it as a book support, or a table on which to lay the trifles she made for the little children. William saw it the first day Sally used it, questioned her closely, took the table back to Lucien, and gave him no rest until there had been a consultation with Whimple and the first steps had been taken toward patenting the invention. It is in use by every hospital almost in the world now, but few recall that a boy then barely seventeen years of age invented it.
And as Sally thought of the past, she saw Lucien coming steadily up the pathway toward her. He greeted her with a quiet, "How are you?" and sat beside her on the verandah. It was almost dark, but warm, and a gentle breeze tempered the atmosphere that throughout the day had been oppressive. From the verandah the central portion of the city to the Bay was stretched out in long regular streets, marked by the glimmering of electric lights. Beyond the wharves the lights of the Island, sentinel like, marked the indented shore facing the city, and beyond that again there flickered faintly from Lake Ontario the lights of a few steamers, some of them pleasure craft, others bearing burdens of freight from, or toward, the sea-ports.
In silence they watched for a long time. It was Lucien who spoke first. "Toronto is growing fast," he said, "it will soon be all built up around here: and it is a fine city—I—I love it—I love it. Some day—I'm foolish, though——"
"Some day," she echoed.
"Some day—I—I—hope I may do something to help to make it a greater city still. Work for one's self isn't everything. Father often talks to me of 'the public good.' 'Every man,' he says, 'should take an intelligent interest in the affairs of his own municipality, and any man who can serve his city in even a humble capacity should be proud to do it.'"
"And you will, Lucien—I know you will." He took one of her hands and held it in his own, and again they sat silent.
"I must go," he said, at last. "Good-night, Sally."
"Good-night," she said, gently.
He rose, and, looking down at her, he said abruptly, "William's going soon; did you know?"
"Mr. Epstein said he thought it would be soon."
"He told me to-day that Mr. Epstein had found a place for him in a good company that will go on the road this fall, after a two weeks' engagement here. He has only a small part, of course, but he regards it as his chance, and he's quite delighted. Next summer he'll come back to give all his time to study again. Good-night."
"Good-night, Lucien."
He turned after he reached the pathway, and called, "It'll be slow without William, won't it?"
"Yes," she answered, and to herself, "but it would be slower without you, Lucien."
On his way to the street car he passed Miss Whimple and Epstein and exchanged greetings with them. When they resumed their walk toward Miss Whimple's house, the old comedian asked her, "Did you notice what he was whistling as he came along?"
"Not particularly."
"Listen: there he is again." And faint, but clear and sweet, she heard it.
"'Sally in our Alley,'" she said, laughingly.
"Yes," answered Epstein with a chuckle.
"The dear lad," said Miss Whimple, "he's a fine fellow. And the dear girl, the dear girl, God help her to a perfect cure."