In the three weeks that followed, Barbara discovered that nothing can “keep you from worrying” when the dark shadow that men call Dread of Death stands on the threshold. She marveled constantly that one frail little body could withstand such desperate onslaughts of fever and pain. David’s illness was quick of development: the drowsiness was followed by days of high fever, and these were succeeded by nights of unconsciousness which plainly showed the strain to which the little frame was being subjected. He wasted greatly under the suffering, and although her father and Dr. Curtis said, “About the same,” each day, it seemed to Barbara’s eyes that the little brother grew less human and more shadowy with every succeeding twenty-four hours. Mrs. Grafton had not been told, both physicians deciding that the shock might cause a relapse, and Barbara’s hardest duty was to keep the news from her mother. In the cheery letters that continued to go to the sanitarium at regular intervals, there was not a word of the tragedy at home, but the writing was more of a strain than the watching in the sick-room.
As Dr. Grafton had predicted to Barbara, her turn came later. David took a most unaccountable dislike to Miss Graves, whose devotion to starch was the only thing in her disfavor, and he objected to her presence in the sick-room with the unreasoning vehemence of the delirious. It was impossible to dismiss Miss Graves without some valid excuse, and equally impossible to secure another nurse in Auburn. So most of the care devolved upon Barbara, much to David’s satisfaction, for he called constantly for his sister, and seemed most contented when her hands smoothed the hot pillow or gave the sleeping-draught.
To the management of the housework, Barbara gave little thought. Meals were scarcely an incident in those days of waiting. Little by little, as conditions grew graver in the invalid’s room, Barbara gave up more and more of her household duties, yet she was vaguely aware that things went on like clockwork downstairs. The meals that appeared upon the table were delicious, and yet Susan’s part in them was not obvious. She slipped in and out of the house at all hours, always bringing comfort with her, and yet bestowing it so quietly that it seemed the gift of a beneficent fairy.
Every critical thing that Barbara had ever said of the provincialism and officiousness of Auburn folk came back to her during these days of trouble. When Mrs. Willowby came with advice or encouragement, when the Enderby children brought home David’s school-books, when Miss Pettibone came running “across lots” with beef tea or a plate of doughnuts, when Mr. Ritter pressed his telephone into service, and agreed to carry all messages, that the sick child might not be disturbed, when even Miss Bates stopped at the door to inquire affectionately about the invalid, and when all the town combined to keep the news from Mrs. Grafton, Barbara’s conscience was stricken. Her heart warmed with gratitude, and the meaning of the word neighborliness was, for the first time, made clear to her.
And yet, with all the kindliness and helpfulness that Auburn could bestow, there was plenty left for the girl to do. It was Barbara who answered the door, who took the messages, who encouraged the children, who cheered Jack, who comforted her father, who assisted the nurse, who was brave when conditions were most discouraging, and sunny when the clouds hung lowest. And it was Barbara, too, who sat beside the bed, ready to rub the aching side or smooth the feverish brow, and who met, with a sinking heart, the discouragement that each day brought.
It was the middle of October before the crisis came. An early frost had stripped the flower beds, withered the vines, and left the yard bare. Barbara, looking out of the window through a blur of rain, on the day when David’s fever was highest, was vaguely relieved by the desolation outside. Sunshine out of doors would have been a mockery. She stood with her back toward the bed and her face toward the street, but her eyes saw nothing but the wasted little form that tossed restlessly to and fro, and her ears heard only the heavy breathing, broken, now and then, by a moan. Miss Graves had gone to get a few hours’ sleep to fortify herself for the vigil of the night, and Dr. Grafton, in the next room, was consulting with Dr. Curtis. The house was so still that their low voices were plainly audible. The words were not distinct, but the discouraged note in her father’s speech fell heavily upon the girl’s heart. “They are afraid,” she said to herself.
She turned from the desolate window to the bed, and with pale lips and dry eyes gazed down at the little brother. David tossed restlessly upon his pillow, and called aloud for Barbara.
“I’m here, dear,” said the girl, taking the small, hot hand in hers; but the boy flung it away with a strange strength.
“I want Barbara,” he cried.