To Brood this new side to Yvonne's far from understandable character was most gratifying. Seeing her in the rôle of good Samaritan was not so surprising to him as the real, unaffected sincerity with which she ministered to the wants of the querulous old man.
Even the nurses, habitually opposed to the good offices of “the family,” were won over by this woman whose unparalleled sweetness levelled them into a condition of respect and love that surprised not only themselves but the doctors. They were quite docile from the start, and seldom, if ever, spoke of Mr Dawes as “the patient” or of his state as “the case.” They got into the habit of alluding to him as the “dear old man,” and somehow envied each other the hours “on duty.” They were never sour.
And so, when it came time for Mr Dawes to thank the Lord for his escape, he refused to commit himself to anything so ridiculous! He even went so far as to declare that the doctor had nothing to do with it, a statement which rather staggered the nurses.
For hours Yvonne read to the blissful old chap. Sometimes she read to him in French, again in Russian, and occasionally in German. It was all one to him. He did not understand a word of it, but he was happy. He felt surprisingly young.
She gave up a month to him and he was prepared to give up his life to her. To his utter amazement, however, she did not exact anything so valuable as that. Indeed, when his recovery was quite complete, she calmly forgot his existence and he sank back into the oblivion from which calamity had dragged him; sank back to the unhappy level of Mr Riggs and all the others who failed to interest her; and there he dreamed of exalted days when she wanted him to live, contrasting them with these days in which he might just as well be dead for all she seemed to care! He was one of the “old men” again.
Mr Riggs, writhing with jealousy, repeatedly remarked, “I told you so,” and somehow felt revenged for the insolent orders she had given to Jones, depriving him of the right to even approach the door of the room in which his lifelong friend was dying. It had been a hard week for Mr Riggs. He hated her as he had never hated anyone in his life before. And yet he thanked God for her, and would have died for her! Nothing, nothing in the world would have given him more pleasure than to be critically ill for her!
CHAPTER XI
“Is there anything wrong with my hair, Mr Brood?” asked Lydia, with a nervous little laugh.