“THE STRONG ARM OF CHRIST”
The sky was gray with morning as Conover stumbled into a sitting room
of the little Magdeburg Hotel. Two men turned toward him. One of them,
his arm in a sling--a great plaster patch on his forehead and dried
blood caking his face,--hurried forward. Caleb looked twice before he
recognized Jack Hawarden.
“Thank Heaven you’re here!” exclaimed the lad. “She--”
“She’s alive yet?” croaked the Fighter.
“Yes, yes! In there,” pointing to a closed door. “Wait!” as Caleb
reached the door at a bound. “Dr. Bond is dressing some of her hurts
again. He’ll be through in a minute. Then I’ll take you in. Mr.
Conover, this is the Reverend Mr. Grant. He has been very, very kind.
He helped us lift the wreckage from her, and--”
“Is she goin’ to get well?” demanded Caleb, wheeling about on the
clergyman.
“All is being done that mortal skill can do,” answered Mr. Grant with
gentle evasion, “The local physician--”
“‘Local physician?’” mocked Caleb. “Here, Hawarden! Sit down there an’
tel’graph to Dr. Hawes an’ Dr. Clay at Granite. Tell ’em to come here
in a rush an’ bring along the best nurses they can find. Tel’graph my
office in my name to give ’em a Special an’ to clear the tracks for
’em. Tel’graph to Noo York, too, for the best specialists they’ve got.
An--”
“I’m afraid, sir” interposed the clergyman, “there is no use in sending
to New York. No doctor there could reach Magdeburg--in time.”
“You do’s I say!” Caleb ordered the lad. Then turning fiercely on Mr.
Grant he demanded:
“What d’you mean by sayin’ he won’t get here on time? She’s goin’ to
get well, if a couple of million dollars worth of med’cal ’tention can
cure her. If not--”
“If not, sir,” said the clergyman, speaking tenderly as a father, “we
must bear God’s will. For such as she there is no fear. She has the
white soul of a child. She will go out of this lesser life of ours
borne on the strong arm of Christ. She--”
“No ‘fear’ for her?” yelled Conover, catching but a single phrase in
the other’s attempt at comfort, “Who the hell is fearin’ for _her_?
That girl’s fit to look on God’s own face an’ live. It’s for _me_ that
I’m afraid. For _me_ that I’m afraid. For _me_ that she’d leave to live
on without her through all the damned dreariness of the years. What’d
there be in it for _me_ to know she was in heaven? I want _her_. I want
her _here_. With _me_! An’ she’d rather be with me. I know she would.
I’d make her happier’n all the angels that ever--”
“You don’t mean to blaspheme,” said the clergyman, “You are not
yourself. She is brave. She knows no dread. Can’t you be as brave
as she is,--for _her_ sake? She is learning that Death is no longer
terrible when one is close enough to see the kind eyes behind the mask.
I know how black an hour this is for you. But God will help you if only
you will carry your grief to Him. When man can endure no more, He sends
Peace. If--”
The door of the inner room opened, and a bearded man emerged. He paused
on the threshold at sight of Caleb. The Fighter thrust him bodily
aside, without ceremony; entered the room the doctor had just quitted
and closed the door behind him.
The light burned low. In the centre of the big white bed,--a
pathetically tiny figure,--lay Desirée. Her wonderful hair flowed loose
over the pillow. The little face, white, pain-drawn, yet smiling joyous
welcome from its great eyes, turned eagerly toward her lover. With an
effort whose anguish left her lips gray she stretched forth her arms to
him.
An inarticulate, sobbing cry that rent his whole body burst from the
Fighter. The dear arms closed above his heaving shoulders and his head
lay once more on the girl’s breast. Through the hell of his agony stole
for the moment that old, weirdly sweet sense of being at last safe from
all the noise and battle of the world;--at _home_. And, as a mother
might hush a frightened child, the stricken girl soothed and comforted
him; whispering secret love-words of their own; lulling to rest the
horror that was consuming him.
* * * * *
And after a time the shock passed, bringing the man’s inborn optimism
back with a rush. This girl who spoke so bravely, who even laughed
a little in her eagerness to comfort him,--she _could_ not be at
death’s door. This local pill-mixer who had pulled so long a face,--he
and the parson chap whose business it was to speed earth’s parting
guests,--between them they had cooked up a fine alarm. They had scared
him,--they and that fool boy who knew nothing about accidents and whose
own minor injuries no doubt made him think Desirée must be incurably
hurt.
Caleb had seen many men who had been injured in railroad smashups.
They had writhed clumsily, emitting raucous screams ’way down in their
throats;--or had lain senseless in queer-shaped heaps, from the first.
Not one of them had been coherent, calm,--yes, even cheerful,--like
this worshipped little sweetheart of his. The first shock was bringing
its normal reaction to the Fighter’s brain and nerves. As ever, it was
imparting to them a redoubled power to cast off depression.
He raised his head; and, by the dim light, studied Desirée’s face. The
brave, beautiful eyes met his with a message of deathless love. The
tortured lips were parted in a smile.
All at once he knew he was right. She would get well. The enginery that
had made his fortune would not crush out her life. The railroad that
had brought him wealth was not to bring him desolation as well. The
foreknowledge set his blood to tingling.
“Are you sufferin’ so very much, girl?” he asked.
And she, reading his thoughts as she had always done, smiled again as
she answered:
“Not very much, dear heart. Hardly at all, now that you’re here. Oh,
it’s _good_ to have you with me again! I was afraid you mightn’t--”
She stopped. He thought he knew why, and made answer:
“Thought I mightn’t come, hey? Why, girl, if you had a smashed finger
an’ sent for me to come clear across the world to kiss it an’ make it
well, I’d come. An’ you know I would. An’ you’re really better since I
got here?”
“Much, much better.”
“I knew it!” he declared, in triumph. “I knew you’d come ’round all
right. I had a hunch you would. An’ my hunches don’t ever go wrong.
I’ve sent for the best doctors in America. If there’s better doctors in
Yurrup I’ll send for those, too. An’, among ’em they’ll have you fit
as a fiddle in no time. You’ll get well, for _me_, darling. You’ll get
well! You’ll get _well_!”
He struck his hand on the bedpost to drive home the prophecy.
“Yes, dear,” she whispered, faint with a new spasm of pain as the jar
of his hand’s impact shook the bed.
“Oh!” he laughed, nervously, “I was so scared, girl. So scared! It
seemed like the world was tumblin’ about my ears. If I’d come here an’
found--”
He could not go on.
“I know, dear, I know!” she told him, stroking his bristled red hair
as she spoke, “It would be terribly lonely for you if--if anything
happened to me. You are so strong in some ways. Yet in others you are a
child. No one understands you except me. No one else can break through
the rough outer-world shell to the big gentle boy that hides inside
it. If I were not here with you, no one would ever look for that boy.
No one would even suspect he was there. And by and by he would die for
lack of companionship. The hard rough armor would go on through life.
But the soul,--the boy I love,--would be dead. Oh, you need me, dear!
You _need_ me! The poor helpless friendly little boy behind the brutal
shell,--the real _you_,--needs me. He can’t live without me. No one
else will love him, or even know he is in his hiding place waiting and
longing to be made friends with, _I can’t let you go_!”
The soft voice broke, despite the gallant spirit’s commands. And the
tone went through Conover like white-hot steel.
“Don’t talk so, Dey!” he implored, “Don’t speak like you weren’t goin’
to get well. You _are_, I tell you!”
“Yes, dear,” she assented once more, petting the big awkward hand that
clung to her.
“Of course you are,” he protested valiantly, “It’s crazy of me to a’
thought anything else. An’ I didn’t, really. You’ll be as well as ever
you was, in a week or less. I’m havin’ nurses tel’graphed for, too. The
best there are. An’,” a veritable inspiration crossing the brain he was
racking for further words of encouragement, “An’ I’ve got a present for
you. A dandy one. Guess what it is.”
“Flowers?” she asked, forcing an interest into her query.
“Flowers!” he echoed in fine scorn, “Somethin’ nicer’n all the flowers
that ever happened! See!”
He fished from his waistcoat pocket a little box wrapped with tissue
paper that was none the cleaner for a week’s companionship with
tobacco-dust and lead pencils.
“Oh, let me open it!” she commanded, with a vestige of her old sweet
imperiousness. “That’s the best part of a present.”
She undid the grimy paper, opened the box and gazed in childish delight
at the gorgeous diamond in its platinum setting.
“I knew you’d like it,” he chuckled, “Han’somest ring in New York. From
the best store there, too. See the name on the box-cover. How’s _that_
for an engagement ring?”
“It’s beautiful! Beautiful!” she murmured.
She slipped it on her third finger, whence it hung heavy and
ridiculously loose.
“Maybe it’s a little too large,” he confessed, “But we’ll have that
fixed easily enough. I didn’t want to ask your size beforehand for fear
you might suspect somethin’. So I had to guess at it.”
She praised the diamond’s beauties until even Conover was content. Then
she lay back among the pillows and fought movelessly for endurance. Her
waning strength, keyed up to its highest pitch for Caleb’s sake, was
deserting her. To hide her weakness she began playing with the ring;
slipping it from finger to finger until at length the circlet hung
loose from her thumb. Caleb watched her slender hand toying with the
gift.
“It’ll be a mighty short time, now,” said he, “before we fit on a plain
gold ring above that! Hey?”
At his words the girl, to his dismay, broke into a passion of tears.
“There! _There!_” he consoled, passing his arms about the frail
tormented body, “Why, what is it, sweetheart? Too much excitement after
your accident? I ought to a’ had better sense than to keep you talkin’
like this. Try an’ get some sleep. An’ when you wake up you’ll feel
better. Lots better. Don’t cry! It breaks me all up to have you do it.
_Don’t_, precious!”
“I--I love you so,” panted the girl, “There’s just you in all the
world, Caleb! You’ll stay close by me _always_, won’t you? Just as long
as I live?”
“You bet I will!” he declared, “An’ I’ll never let you out of my sight.
I ain’t more’n half myself when you’re away. I need you worse’n you can
ever need me, Dey. You’re just the heart of me.”
“Don’t take your arms away,” she begged, “They are so strong, so
safe. Listen, dear:--I want you to pick me up,--I’m not too heavy, am
I?--Pick me up and carry me. I want to be close to you,--closer than I
ever was before. You are so big,--so powerful. And--I feel so weak. I’m
a little restless; that’s all,” she added hastily, “And it will quiet
me to be held.”
He gathered her gently to his breast. Her arms clasped his neck; her
face was buried in his shoulder to stifle the cry of agony evoked by
the movement of lifting. Then, carrying her closely to his heart,
Conover began to pace the room, bearing the girl as easily and as
lightly as though she were a baby.
The tenderness of his caress now held no roughness. The motion and the
reliance on his perfect strength quieted her suffering and gave her the
sense of utter peace she had known when she fell asleep in his arms on
the Adirondack hilltop.
“I am _very_ happy!” she sighed, “Do I tire you?”
“Not much you don’t, you little bit of a girl!” he laughed, “I could
carry you always. An’ I’m goin’ to. Right close in my heart. Say,
there was a man out in the other room when I came. A minister. He said
a queer thing. Somethin’ ’bout bein’ carried on the ‘strong arm of
Christ.’”
“I think I know what he meant,” said Desirée, softly.
“H’m! Sometime when you’re better I’ll get you to explain it to me. I’d
rather talk ’bout you, just now. D’you remember that time I sat by the
fire an’ held you like this while you went to sleep?”
“Do I _remember_?” she answered, “There has never been one hour I’ve
forgotten it. It made me feel so safe from harm; so sure, so happy.
Perhaps,--yes, I’m _sure_--that’s the way one must feel when--”
“Are you thinkin’ ’bout what that preacher said?” asked Caleb,
miserably, “Don’t, girl! It’ll be years and years before you ever need
to think ’bout those things. A month from now we’ll both laugh over the
scare I had.... Your eyes get wonderfuller all the time, Dey. I never
knew quite how lovely they were till now. There’s a light in ’em like
they was lookin’ at somethin’ a common chap like me couldn’t see.”
She drew his head down and their lips met in a long kiss. As he raised
his face he half-fancied she whispered some word; but he could not
catch its purport.
He resumed his pacing to and fro. After a time Desirée’s lashes
drooped. Her quick breathing grew slow and regular.
“I didn’t think--anyone could--be so--happy,” she murmured, drowsily.
“It’s sweet to--to rest--in your arms.”
He bent to kiss her on the forehead. The brow that had been so hot to
his first touch was cool and moist.
“You’re better already!” he cried in delight. “Say, sweetheart, I got
an idea. To-morrow let’s get that preacher chap to marry us. Shan’t
we? Then as soon as you get well enough, we’ll go somewhere for the
dandiest weddin’ trip on record. To Yurrup, if you like. Or back to the
Antlers. Or anywhere you say. An’ I’ll buy you the prettiest clo’es in
all Noo York; an’ you can get a whole cartload of joolry, if you like.
I’d pay ev’ry cent I got in the world to keep that wonderful, happy
light in those big eyes of yours. Will you marry me to-morrow, girl?”
Desirée did not answer. She was asleep. On tiptoe, Caleb crossed to the
bed. He laid her down upon it, smoothing the hot tumbled pillows with
his unaccustomed hand. Then he tiptoed with ponderous softness out of
the room and closed the door silently behind him.
“Well!” he exclaimed gleefully, addressing Jack and the doctor who were
consulting at the far end of the next room. “Guess I had my fright for
nothin’! She’ll get on fine. She’s sound asleep, an’ her forehead’s--”
“It is the morphia I gave her to deaden the pain,” said the doctor.
“If she had not been suffering so terribly it would have taken effect
before.”
“Morphia? Sufferin’?” repeated Caleb. “Why, she’s hardly sufferin’ at
all. Told me so, herself. Look here!” he went on, bullyingly, as he
advanced on the physician, “D’ye mean to say there’s a chance she
_won’t_ get well?”
“There is no earthly power,” retorted the doctor, nettled at the
domineering tone, “that can keep her alive ten hours longer.”
“You lie! Don’t I know--?”
“I cannot thrash you in the anteroom of death,” answered the doctor,
“and I take your sorrow into consideration. But what I just said is
true. Miss Shevlin has sustained internal injuries which cannot but
prove fatal. Nothing but her yearning to see you again has kept her
alive as long as this. It is best to be frank.”
Caleb was eyeing him stupidly. At last he turned to Jack.
“Did you send those tel’grams?” he asked; and his voice was dead.
“Yes, sir,” replied Hawarden. “I sent them, but--”
“But I told him it was useless,” put in the doctor. “There is not
a fighting chance. She will not come out of this morphia stupor.
The moisture on her forehead is what you laymen would call the
‘death-sweat.’ She--”
“You lie!” broke forth Caleb, beside himself. “You may fool women and
children by your damn profess’nal airs, but it don’t go down with
_me_. I’ve seen folks die. An’ they ain’t sane an’ cheerful an’ bright
like Dey Shevlin was just now. You quacks make a livin’ by throwin’
med’cines you don’t half understand into systems you don’t understand
at all. As long’ it’s a triflin’ case of mumps or headache, you look
all-fired wise an’ write out p’scriptions in a furren language to hide
your ignor’nce. But when anything’s reely the matter you’re as helpless
as a drunken longshoreman. If the patient dies from your blunders an’
from the dope you throw hap-hazard into him, he ‘hadn’t a chance from
the start.’ If he gets well in spite of you, it’s your almighty skill
that ‘pulled him through.’ When a feller gets colic an’ you call it
appendicitis, what do you do? You don’t rest till you get a chance
to stick your knives into him. If he gets well, it’s a ‘mir’cle of
modern surgery.’ If he croaks, the ‘op’ration was a success,’--only
the patient got peevish an’ died. There never yet was an appendicitis
case where the quack in charge didn’t say there’ a been ‘no hope if the
op’ration had been delayed another two hours.’ Oh, you’re a fine lot of
fakers an’ gold-brick con men, you doctors! An’ now you say my little
girl’s dyin’! God damn your soul, I tell you again you _lie_!”
The doctor picked up his black bag without replying and moved toward
the outer door.
“Where you goin’?” demanded Caleb.
“I’m going home,” was the stiff retort. “I drop this case. I do not
care to be associated longer with a wild beast like--”
The words were choked in his mouth. At a spring, Conover had cleared
the space between them, had caught the physician by the throat and
was shaking him back and forth with jerks that threatened to snap
the victim’s spine. Then he hurled him to the centre of the room and
towered over him, ablaze with fury.
“Yes, I’m a wild beast, all right!” he snarled. “An’ I’m li’ble to
become a hom’cidal one at that. ‘Drop the case,’ would you? Sneak out
an’ leave that poor kid in there to lose what chance she might have
from your help? Well, Mr. Doctor, if you take one step out into that
hall, the next step you take’ll be in hell. What’s more, you’ll go back
to that sick room, right now; an’ you’ll work over Miss Shevlin like
you never worked before. If I catch you neglectin’ her or tryin’ to get
away,--by the Eternal, I’ll tear you in half with my bare hands! Now
_go_! Go in there!”
The doctor, his rage tempered by the memory of the iron fingers on
his windpipe, glared at the madman in angry irresolution. Caleb’s
muscles tightened ominously. The physician recoiled a step in most
unprofessional haste.
“You are a dangerous maniac!” he said somewhat unsteadily, “and you
shall go to prison for this outrageous assault. For the present, I
shall remain on the case. Not because of your threats, but from common
humanity toward--”
“Toward yourself,” finished Caleb, satisfied that he had won his point.
“An’ just to make sure, I’ll lock the outer door of this suite an’
pocket the key. Now go back to your patient!”
* * * * *
Outside, there was glaring, heartless sunshine. In the sick room stood
Caleb and Jack, one on either side of the bed over which the doctor was
bending. With closed eyes, Desirée Shevlin rested where Conover had
laid her. For hours she had lain thus.
“I can do no more,” pronounced the doctor, rising and meeting Caleb’s
glazed eye. “The end may come now at any moment.”
The Fighter, his every faculty drowned in the horrible egotism of
grief, made no answer.
“If only there were someone to pray!” muttered Jack, battling to keep
back the tears. “I wish Mr. Grant was--”
“Pray?” echoed Caleb, rousing himself and clutching at the faint hope.
“It can’t do any harm. Pray, man! _Pray!_”
“I--I _can’t_!” babbled the boy. “I don’t know how. I never prayed in
my life. I--”
“Try it!” groaned Caleb. “_Try_ it, I say! You may have beginner’s
luck!”
“No use!” interposed the doctor. “It’s over.”
As he spoke, Desirée stirred ever so slightly. Her closed eyes opened.
She seemed to settle lower in the bed. Then she lay very still.
With a sobbing cry Jack Hawarden rushed from the room. Conover stood,
dumb, petrified, staring wildly down into the unseeing, all-seeing
eyes.