“In a certain sense, madam, I am her guardian. Will you allow me to help you with that door? And now, how is she?”
“About as bad as she can be, sir; and if you are her guardian, I only wish that you had looked after her a little before, for I think that being so lonesome has preyed upon her mind, poor dear. And now perhaps you’ll step upstairs into her sitting-room, making as little noise as possible. The doctor and the nurse are with her, and you may wish to see them; it’s not a catching fever, so you can come up safely.”
He bowed, and followed Mrs. Bird to the little room, where she offered him a chair. Through the thin double doors that separated them from the bedchamber he could hear the sound of whispering, and now and again of a voice, still strong and full, that spoke at random. “Don’t cut my hair,” said the voice: “why do you cut my hair? He used to praise it; he’d never know me without my hair.”
“That’s her raving, poor love. She’ll go on in this kind of way for hours.”
Mr. Levinger turned a shade paler. He was a sensitive man, and these voices of the sick room pained him; moreover, he may have found a meaning in them.
“Perhaps you will give me a few details, Mrs. Bird,” he said, drawing his chair close to the window. “You might tell me first how Joan Haste came to be your lodger.”
So Mrs. Bird began, and told him all the story, from the day when she had seen Joan sitting upon her box on the opposite doorstep till the present hour that is, she told it to him with certain omissions. Mr. Levinger listened attentively.
“I was very wrong,” he said, when she had finished, “to allow her to come to London in this fashion. I reproach myself much about it, but the girl was headstrong and —there were reasons. It is most fortunate that she should have found so kind a friend as you seem to have been to her.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Bird severely, “I must say that I think you were wrong. London is not a place to throw a young woman like Joan into to sink or to swim, even though she may have given you some trouble; and if anything happens to her I think that you will always have it on your conscience.” And she put her head on one side and looked at him through her spectacles.
Mr. Levinger winced visibly, and did not seem to know what to answer. At that moment the doctor came out of the sick room, leaving the door open; and, looking through it, Mr. Levinger saw a picture that he could never forget. Joan was lying upon an iron bedstead, and on a chair beside it, shimmering in the light, lay the tumbled masses of her shorn hair. Her face was flushed, and her large eyes shone with an unnatural brightness. One hand hung downwards almost to the floor, and with the other she felt feebly at her head, saying in a piteous voice, “Where is my hair? What have you done with my hair? He will never know me like this, or if he does he will think me ugly. Oh! please give me back my hair.” Then the nurse closed the door, and Mr. Levinger was glad of it.