A night finally came when the little doctor announced that the crisis was passed, that the patient would recover. Only then did he admit that he had almost despaired. Had it not been for Louise’s vigilance, Dare would not have survived a week, for he was one of those giants who often succumb under the first onslaught of a complication of ailments.
“Louise has been splendid,” Keble acknowledged. “It’s lucky for Dare that they were such good chums.”
The doctor turned on him with a suddenness that surprised Miriam no less than Keble. “You don’t understand Louise,” he said. “She would take as much pains to cure a wounded dog as she would to cure the Governor-General. She would do as much for the stable boy as she would do for you; under certain circumstances, more. For she gives her strength to the helpless. Dare was helpless, body and soul. If you had watched him tossing and heard him moaning your eyes would have opened to many things. He was not only physically lost, he was lost in spirit. An ordinary nurse would have tended his body. Louise has tended his spirit. By a thousand suggestions she has restored his faith in himself, created him. For you that spells nothing but the service of a clever woman for a friend. What do you know about service? What do you know about friendship? What do you know about the sick man? What do you know about life? What do you know about Louise? Precious little, my boy!”
The doctor disappeared in a state of exaltation, leaving Keble bewildered. “There’s a blind spot in me somewhere, Miriam,” he said. “Can you put your finger on it?”
“I’m afraid we’re both blind,” she said feebly. “At least we haven’t their elemental clairvoyance. The doctor is doubtless right in his flamboyant way, and we are right in our pitiful way. We can only try, I suppose, to be right at a higher pitch.”
“By Jove,” Keble suddenly exclaimed, with a retrospective fear, “it was a closer shave than we had any idea of. I wonder if Louise realized.”
Miriam smiled bitterly. “You may be quite sure, my dear Keble, that she did. If you have been spared a great load of pain, you may take my word for it that it’s Louise you have to thank.”
Keble was pale. In his eyes was the look which Miriam had seen on another occasion, just before the birth of his son. “Then I do wish,” he quietly said, “that my friends would do me the kindness to point out some of my most inexcusable limitations, instead of letting me walk through life in a fool’s paradise.”
Miriam was ready to retort that even such a wish reflected the amour propre that determined most of his acts, but she had been touched by the emotion in his eyes and voice,—an emotion which only one woman could inspire. “I think we’re all trying desperately to learn the ABC’s of life,” she said.
She was unnerved by the self-abasement that had stolen into his expression. For the first time in her life she went close to him and took his hand in hers. “Don’t mind if I’ve spoken like a preacher,” she pleaded in a voice which she could control just long enough to finish her counsel. “The sermon is directed at my own heart even more than yours.”