Dawn was creeping in at the windows--a grey city dawn, filled with soot and the rumbling of early wagons. A smell of damp asphalt from the courtyard floated in and a dirty sparrow chirped on the sill where the Nurse had been in the habit of leaving crumbs. Billy Grant, very sleepy and contented now that he had got his way, dictated a line or two on a blank symptom record, and signed his will in a sprawling hand.
"If only," he muttered, "I could see Lin"s face when that"s--sprung on him!"
The minister picked up the Bible from the tumbled bed and opened it.
"Perhaps," he suggested very softly, "if I read from the Word of G.o.d----"
Satisfied now that he had fooled the Lindley Grants out of their very s...o...b..u.t.tons, Billy Grant was asleep--asleep with the thermometer under his arm and with his chest rising and falling peacefully.
The minister looked across at the Nurse, who was still holding the thermometer in place. She had buried her face in the white counterpane.
"You are a good woman, sister," he said softly. "The boy is happier, and you are none the worse. Shall I keep the paper for you?"
But the Nurse, worn out with the long night, slept where she knelt.
The minister, who had come across the street in a ragged smoking-coat and no collar, creaked round the bed and threw the edge of the blanket over her shoulders.
Then, turning his coat collar up over his unshaved neck, he departed for the mission across the street, where one of his derelicts, in his shirtsleeves, was sweeping the pavement. There, mindful of the fact that he had come from the contagious pavilion, the minister brushed his shabby smoking-coat with a whiskbroom to remove the germs!
III
Billy Grant, of course, did not die. This was perhaps because only the good die young. And Billy Grant"s creed had been the honour of a gentleman rather than the Mosaic Law. There was, therefore, no particular violence done to his code when his last thoughts--or what appeared to be his last thoughts--were revenge instead of salvation.
The fact was, Billy Grant had a real reason for hating the Lindley Grants. When a fellow like that has all the Van Kleek money and a hereditary thirst, he is bound to drink. The Lindley Grants did not understand this and made themselves obnoxious by calling him "Poor Billy!" and not having wine when he came to dinner. That, however, was not his reason for hating them.
Billy Grant fell in love. To give the devil his due, he promptly set about reforming himself. He took about half as many whisky-and-sodas as he had been in the habit of doing, and cut out champagne altogether. He took up golf to fill in the time, too, but gave it up when he found it made him thirstier than ever. And then, with things so shaping up that he could rise in the morning without having a drink to get up on, the Lindley Grants thought it best to warn the girl"s family before it was too late.
"He is a nice boy in some ways," Mrs. Lindley Grant had said on the occasion of the warning; "but, like all drinking men, he is a broken reed, eccentric and irresponsible. No daughter of mine could marry him. I"d rather bury her. And if you want facts Lindley will give them to you."
So the girl had sent back her ring and a cold little letter, and Billy Grant had got roaring full at a club that night and presented the ring to a cabman--all of which is exceedingly sordid, but rather human after all.
The Nurse, having had no sleep for forty-eight hours, slept for quite thirty minutes. She wakened at the end of that time and started up with a horrible fear that the thing she was waiting for had come. But Billy Grant was still alive, sleeping naturally, and the thermometer, having been in place forty minutes, registered a hundred and three.
At eight o"clock the interne, hurrying over in fresh ducks, with a laudable desire to make the rounds before the Staff began to drop in, found Billy Grant very still and with his eyes closed, and the Nurse standing beside the bed, pale and tremulous.
"Why didn"t you let me know?" he demanded, aggrieved. "I ought to have been called. I told you----"
"He isn"t dead," said the Nurse breathlessly. "He--I think he is better."
Whereon she stumbled out of the room into her own little room across the hall, locking the door behind her, and leaving the interne to hunt the symptom record for himself--a thing not to be lightly overlooked; though of course internes are not the Staff.
The interne looked over the record and whistled.
"Wouldn"t that paralyse you!" he said under his breath. ""Pulse very weak." "Pulse almost obliterated." "Very talkative." "Breathing hard at four A.M. Cannot swallow." And then: "Sleeping calmly from five o"clock." "Pulse stronger." Temperature one hundred and three." By gad, that last prescription of mine was a hit!"
So now began a curious drama of convalescence in the little isolation pavilion across the courtyard. Not for a minute did the two people most concerned forget their strange relationship; not for worlds would either have allowed the other to know that he or she remembered. Now and then the Nurse caught Billy Grant"s eyes fixed on her as she moved about the room, with a curious wistful expression in them. And sometimes, waking from a doze, he would find her in her chair by the window, with her book dropped into her lap and a frightened look in her eyes, staring at him.
He gained strength rapidly and the day came when, with the orderly"s a.s.sistance, he was lifted to a chair. There was one brief moment in which he stood tottering on his feet. In that instant he had realised what a little thing she was, after all, and what a cruel advantage he had used for his own purpose.
When he was settled in the chair and the orderly had gone she brought an extra pillow to put behind him, and he dared the first personality of their new relationship.
"What a little girl you are, after all!" he said. "Lying there in the bed shaking at your frown, you were so formidable."
"I am not small," she said, straightening herself. She had always hoped that her cap gave her height. "It is you who are so tall.
You--you are a giant!"
"A wicked giant, seeking whom I may devour and carrying off lovely girls for dinner under pretence of marriage----" He stopped his nonsense abruptly, having got so far, and both of them coloured.
Thrashing about desperately for something to break the wretched silence, he seized on the one thing that in those days of his convalescence was always pertinent--food. "Speaking of dinner," he said hastily, "isn"t it time for some b.u.t.termilk?"
She was quite calm when she came back--cool, even smiling; but Billy Grant had not had the safety valve of action. As she placed the gla.s.s on the table at his elbow he reached out and took her hand.
"Can you ever forgive me?" he asked. Not an original speech; the usual question of the marauding male, a query after the fact and too late for anything but forgiveness.
"Forgive you? For not dying?"
She was pale; but no more subterfuge now, no more turning aside from dangerous subjects. The matter was up before the house.
"For marrying you!" said Billy Grant, and upset the b.u.t.termilk. It took a little time to wipe up the floor and to put a clean cover on the stand, and after that to bring a fresh gla.s.s and place it on the table. But these were merely parliamentary preliminaries while each side got its forces in line.
"Do you hate me very much?" opened Billy Grant. This was, to change the figure, a blow below the belt.
"Why should I hate you?" countered the other side.
"I should think you would. I forced the thing on you."
"I need not have done it."
"But being you, and always thinking about making some one else happy and comfortable----"
"Oh, if only they don"t find it out over there!" she burst out. "If they do and I have to leave, with Jim----"
Here, realising that she was going to cry and not caring to screw up her face before any one, she put her arms on the stand and buried her face in them. Her stiff tulle cap almost touched Billy Grant"s arm.
Billy Grant had a shocked second.
"Jim?"
"My little brother," from the table.
Billy Grant drew a long breath of relief. For a moment he had thought----
"I wonder--whether I dare to say something to you." Silence from the table and presumably consent. "Isn"t he--don"t you think that--I might be allowed to--to help Jim? It would help me to like myself again. Just now I"m not standing very high with myself."
"Won"t you tell me why you did it?" she said, suddenly sitting up, her arms still out before her on the table. "Why did you coax so?
You said it was because of a little property you had, but--that wasn"t it--was it?"
"No."