Once when she left his room with an aching head and heavy eyes after a long watch with the nurse, who could not control her fevered patient without the girl’s assistance, Clay met her on the stairs, and as he gave her a swift, inquiring glance, she saw that his face was worn.
“Asleep at last,” she said. “I think he’ll rest for a few hours.”
He looked at her with gratitude and some embarrassment, which was something she had never seen him show.
“And you?” he asked. “How much of this can you stand for?”
Ruth did not think the question was prompted by consideration for her. He would be merciless in his exactions, but she could forgive him this because it was for his son’s sake. Besides, there was subtle flattery in his recognition of her influence.
“I dare say I can hold out as long as I am needed,” she answered with a smile. “After all, the nurses and the doctor are the people on whom the worst strain falls.”
“Bosh!” he exclaimed with rough impatience. “I guess you know you’re more use than all three together. Why that’s so doesn’t matter at present; there the thing is.”
Ruth blushed, though she was angry with herself as she felt her face grow hot, because she had no wish that he should startle her into any display of feeling; but, to her relief, he no longer fixed his eyes on her.
“My dear,” he said, “I want your promise that you’ll pull him through. You can, if you are determined enough; and he’s all I have. Hold him back—he’s been slipping downhill the last few days—and there’s nothing you need hesitate about asking from me.”
“Though it may not be much, I’ll do what I can.” Ruth’s tone was slightly colder. “But one does not expect—”