“May be dangerous?” he echoed Jane’s question. “Surely, Jane. It all depends upon how Mary progresses. It is perfectly possible for her to develop dangerous symptoms. It is for us to do our best to prevent it. Mary is so unselfishly loving toward you all that I believe she will not give you pain in this! It wouldn’t be like her! In any case, it is something to rejoice over that the flames did not lick her sweet old-time face. Mary always has looked to me like an old daguerreotype.”
Jane turned away with impatience hard to restrain. Doctor Hall had been their physician as long as the Garden girls could remember, longer, but Jane did not want to hear him speak of Mary’s face. She did not want him to speak of anything except Mary’s condition. There was nothing left in the world to speak of nor to think of but that; all else was maddeningly unreal and intrusive. Mary lay wrapped in bandages, motionless, and, except for a few words feebly spoken occasionally, silent, patient. They did not know whether she slept most of the time, or lay enduring, weak, yet strong in submissive patience. The doctor said that there could not be a better patient. Mary gave herself up to being taken care of with the complete resignation that best coöperates with science and nursing.
Mr. Moulton had insisted upon a nurse for Mary, though Jane and Anne begged to be allowed to take care of her, promising entire obedience to Doctor Hall. But Mr. Moulton knew that it would be too hard upon those who loved her to dress Mary’s wounds. The nurse, kind, interested, faithful, was installed; Jane, Anne, Mrs. Garden were spared seeing how dreadfully hurt their beloved girl was.
For that Mary was a beloved girl to all three her danger proved. Anne’s devotion needed no proof; Jane’s adoring love for her sister had begun when she, the little baby, watched the big baby—for they were babies together—and wriggled to her as soon as she could creep. Florimel paid Mary the worship of a little sister for an older one, a tempestuous nature for a calm one, a generously ardent heart for one who deserved its best love. But now that Mary lay like the pitiful mummy of herself, now that the house was sadly deprived of her pervading unselfish presence, Mrs. Garden showed how closely this eldest daughter had grown into her love.
Jane prowled all day long, and the greater part of the night, up and down the hall, just beyond Mary’s door, or lay prostrate on the floor in the next room, her ear against the wall to catch a sound. Florimel, always restless, sat for hours on the top step of the stairs, clasping her knees with her hands, also listening, listening, all day long listening. Anne often joined Florimel here; Abbie came at intervals to ask: “Anything?” Then to go solemnly away, disappointed by the inevitable “No.” Win frankly gave up all attempt to work or to study during these days. He marched up and down the garden, often with Mark, whom Mr. Moulton released from duty. Indeed the older man was utterly unable to go on with his great book.
“What difference can it make about the flora of New York State, if our sweetest blossom is stricken?” he demanded, drawing fiercely on his extinguished pipe. Mrs. Moulton sat throughout these anxious days holding her hands, restraining nervousness by a great effort, wholly unable to accomplish any task.
All this was to be expected, for Mary was dearest of all earthly things to each of these, even to Mark, though no one but himself knew this.
But Mrs. Garden became Mary’s mother in full as she waited, watching, praying, fearing, to know whether she might keep her. No longer was she the Garden girls’ “little toy-mother,” as they had caressingly called her. She could not change her nature and become, suddenly, strong in body and dependence. All her life she must be the petted, reliant creature which habit had made her, but she proved that she could love her child and suffer keenly in the dread of losing such a daughter as Mary was. She it was who sat beside Mary’s bed, ceaselessly watching her dear face for a contortion of pain, or for a clue to a wish, or for the smile with which Mary tried to cheer her troubled family.
“I’ll be all right, little mother,” she said feebly one day. “Why don’t you go to drive? You are always here. Did that baby—is the Bell baby—better?”
Mrs. Garden knew what the word was which Mary could not bring herself to say. “The Bell baby was not badly burned, Mary. You saved her. She has suffered merely surface burns. She is in bandages, but not hurt as you are! Oh, Mary darling, and you are so much more valuable!” Mrs. Garden could not repress the cry. Mary gave her the ghost of her own smile.