THE CRISIS
And then the day came when the doctor said Patty had pneumonia. Rooms
were darkened; nurses went around silently; Nan wandered about, unable
to concentrate her mind on anything and Mr. Fairfield spent much of his
time at home.
The telephone was continually ringing, as one friend after another asked
how Patty was, and the rooms downstairs were filled with the gifts of
flowers that the patient might not even see.
“What word, Doctor?” asked Mona Galbraith, as the physician came
downstairs, one morning. The girls came and went as they chose. Always
some one or more of them were sitting in the library or living-room,
anxiously awaiting news.
“I think I can say she’s holding her own,” replied the doctor,
guardedly; “if she had a stronger constitution, I should feel decidedly
hopeful. But she is a frail little body, and we must be very, very
careful.”
He hurried away, and Mona turned back to where Elise sat.
“I know she’ll die,” wailed Elise. “I just _know_ Patty will die. Oh, it
seems _such_ a shame! I can’t _bear_ it!” and she broke down in a tumult
of sobbing.
“Don’t, Elise,” begged Mona. “Why not hope for the best? Patty isn’t
strong,—but she’s a healthy little piece, and that doctor is a calamity
howler, anyway. Everybody says so.”
“I know it, but somehow I have a presentiment Patty never will get
well.”
“Presentiments are silly things! They don’t mean a thing! I’d rather
have hope than all the presentiments in the world. Here comes Roger.”
Knowing his sister and his fiancée were there, Roger came in. They told
him what the doctor had said.
“Brace up, girls,” he said, cheeringly. “The game’s never out till it’s
played out. I believe our spunky little Patty will outwit the old
pneumonia and get the better of it. She always comes out top of the heap
somehow. And her holding on so long is a good sign. Don’t you want to go
home now, Mona? You look all tired out.”
“Yes, do go, Mona,” said Elise, kindly. “But it isn’t tiredness, Roger,
it’s anxiety. Go on, you two, I’ll stay a while longer.”
The pair went, and Elise sat alone in the library.
Presently, through the stilled house, she heard Patty’s voice ring out,
high and shrill.
“I don’t _want_ it!” Patty cried; “I don’t _want_ the fortune! And I
don’t want to marry _anybody_! Why do they make me _promise_ to marry
everybody in the whole world?”
The voice was that of delirium. Though not really delirious, Patty’s
mind was flighty, and the sentences that followed were disjointed and
incoherent. But they all referred to a fortune or to a marriage.
“What can she mean?” sobbed Nan, who, with her husband, sat in an
adjoining room.
“Never mind, dear, it’s her feverish, disordered imagination talking. If
she were herself, she wouldn’t know what those words meant. Perhaps it
is better that her mind wanders. Some say that’s a good sign. Keep up
hope, Nan, darling, if only for my sake.”
“Yes, Fred. And we have cause for hope. Doctor is by no means
discouraged, and if we can tide over another twenty-four hours——”
“Yes—if we can——”
“We will! Something tells me Patty will get well. The clear look in her
eyes this morning——”
“Were they clear, Nan? Did they seem so to you?”
“Yes, dear, they did. And the nurse said that meant a lot.”
“But the specialist doctor—he said Patty is so frail——”
“So she is, and always has been. But that’s in her favour. It’s often
the strong, robust people that go off quickest with pneumonia. Patty has
a wiry, nervous strength that is a help to her now.”
“You’re such a comfort, Nan. But I don’t want Patty to die.”
“Nor I, Fred. She is nearly as dear to me as to you. You know that, I’m
sure. And Patty is a born fighter. She’s like you in that. I know she’ll
battle with that disease and conquer it,—I _know_ she will!”
“Please God you’re right, dearest. Let us hope it with all our hearts.”
Alone, Patty fought her life and death battle. Doctors, nurses, friends,
all did what they could, but alone she grappled with the angel of death.
All unconsciously, too, but with an involuntary struggle for life
against the grim foe that held her. Now and again her voice cried out in
delirium or murmured in a babbling monotone.
Now racked with fever, now shivering with a chill, the tortured little
body shook convulsively or lay in a death-like stupor.
Once, when Kit Cameron was downstairs, they heard Patty shriek out about
the fortune.
“Oh,” said Kit, awestruck; “can she mean that fortune-telling business
we had? Don’t you remember I told her she’d inherit a fortune. Of
course, I was only joking. Fortune-tellers always predict a legacy. I
hope _that_ hasn’t worried her.”
“No,” said Nan, shaking her head, “it isn’t that. She’s been worrying
about that fortune ever since she’s been flighty. I know what she means.
Never mind it.”
Glad that it was not an unfortunate result of his practical joke, Kit
dropped the subject.
“I want her to get well so terribly,” he went on. “I just _can’t_ have
it otherwise. I’ve always cherished a sort of forlorn hope that I could
win her yet. Do you think I’ve a chance, Mrs. Nan?”
“When we get her well again, we’ll see,” and Nan tried to speak
cheerfully. “But it’s awfully nice of you boys to come round so often.
You cheer us up a good deal. Mr. Fairfield is not very hopeful. You see
Patty’s mother died so young, and Patty is very like her, delicate,
fragile, though almost never really ill. And here comes another of my
boys.”
Nan always called Patty’s friends her boys; and they all liked the
pleasant, lively young matron, and affectionately called her Mrs. Nan.
This time it was Chick Channing, and he came to inquire after Patty, and
also to bring the sad news that Mrs. Van Reypen was dead.
Though not entirely unexpected, for the old lady had been very ill, it
was a shock, and cast a deeper gloom over the household.
“I’m so sorry for Philip,” said Nan. “He was devoted to his aunt, and
she idolised him. Of late, he practically made his home with her.”
“I suppose he is her heir,” observed Channing.
“I suppose so,” returned Nan, listlessly. And then she suddenly
remembered what Patty had said about Mrs. Van’s bequest to her. But she
decided to make no mention of it at present.
“She was a wealthy old lady,” said Cameron. “Van Reypen will be well
fixed. He’s a good all-round man, I like him.”
“I don’t know him well,” said Chick, “I met him a few times. A thorough
aristocrat, I should say.”
“All of that. They’re among the oldest of the Knickerbockers. But
nothing of the snob about him. A right down good fellow and a loyal
friend. Well, I must go. Command me, Mrs. Nan, if I can do the least
thing for our Patty Girl. Keep up a good heart, and——”
Kit’s voice choked, and he went off without further words.
Channing soon followed, but all day the young people kept calling or
telephoning, for Patty had hosts of friends and they all loved her.
Nan went to her room to write a note of sympathy to Philip. Her own
heart full of sorrow and anxiety, she felt deeply for the young man
whose home death had invaded, and her kindred trouble helped her to
choose the right words of comfort and cheer.
The day of Mrs. Van Reypen’s funeral, Patty was very low indeed. Doctor
and nurses held their breath as their patient hovered on the borderland
of the Valley of Shadow, and Patty’s father, with Nan sobbing in his
arms, awaited the dread verdict or the word of glorious hope.
Patty stirred restlessly, her breathing laboured and difficult.
“I—did—promise,” she said in very low, but clear tones, “but I
didn’t—oh, I didn’t—_want_ to—I didn’t——” her voice trailed away to
silence.
“What _is_ that promise?” whispered the doctor to Nan. “It’s been
troubling her——”
“I don’t know at all. She usually tells me her troubles, but I don’t
know what this means.”
There was a slight commotion below stairs. The doctor looked at a nurse,
and she moved noiselessly out to command quiet.
Patty’s eyes opened wide, they looked very blue, and their glance was
more nearly rational than it had been.
“Sh!” she said, weakly. “Listen! It _is_! Yes, it _is_. Tell him to come
up, I want to see him.”
“Who is it?” asked the doctor. “She mustn’t see anybody.”
“I must,” whimpered Patty, beginning to cry; “it’s Little Billee; I want
him now.”
“For heaven’s sake, she’s rational!” exclaimed the doctor. “Bring him
up, whoever he is, if she says so! No matter if it’s an elephant, bring
him at once!”
Half frightened, Nan went out into the hall. Sure enough, big Bill
Farnsworth was halfway upstairs.
“I heard her!” he said, in a choked voice, “she said she wanted me——”
“Come,” said Nan, and led the way.
Softly Farnsworth stepped inside the door, gently as a woman he took
Patty’s thin little hand in his two big strong ones, as he sat down in a
chair beside her bed.
“Little Billee,” and Patty smiled faintly, “I want somebody to strong
me—I’m so weak—you can——”
“Yes, dear,” and firmly holding her hand in one of his, Farnsworth
softly touched her eyelids with his fingertips, and the white lids fell
over the blue eyes, and with a contented little sigh, Patty sank into a
natural sleep, the first in many days.
Released from his nervous tension, the doctor’s set features relaxed. He
looked in gratified amazement at the sleeping girl, and at the two
astonished nurses.
“She will live,” he said, softly. “But it is like a miracle. On no
account let her be awakened; but you may move, sir. She is in a sound
sleep of exhaustion.”
Farnsworth rose,—laying down Patty’s hand lightly as a snowflake,—and
soundlessly left the room.
Nan and Mr. Fairfield followed, after a moment.
They found the big fellow looking out of the hall window. At their
footsteps, he turned, making no secret of the fact that he was wiping
the tears from his eyes.
“I didn’t know—” he said, brokenly, “until yesterday. I was in
Chicago,—I made the best connections I could, and raced up here. Have
I—is she—all right now?”
“Yes,” and Fred Fairfield grasped Farnsworth’s hand. “Undoubtedly you
saved her life. It was the crisis. If she could sleep—they said,—and
she is sleeping.”
“Thank God!” and the honest blue eyes of the big Westerner filled again
with tears.
“Thank _you_, too,” cried Nan, and she shook his hand with fervour.
“Come into my sitting-room, and tell me all about it. How did Patty know
you were here?”
“Didn’t you tell her?” Bill looked amazed.
“No; she must have heard your voice—downstairs——”
“But I scarcely spoke above my breath!”
“She heard it,—or divined your presence somehow, for she said you were
there and she wanted you,—the first rational words she has spoken!”
“Bless her heart! Perhaps she heard me, perhaps it was telepathy. I
don’t know, or care. She wanted me, and I was there. I am glad.”
The big man looked so proud and yet so humble as he said this, that Nan
forgot her dislike and distrust of him, and begged him to stay with
them.
“Oh, no,” he said. “That wouldn’t do. I’ll be in New York a few weeks
now, at the Excelsior. I’ll see you often,—and Patty when I may,—but I
won’t stay here, thanks. I’m so happy to have been of service, and
always command me, of course.”
Farnsworth bowed and went off, and the two Fairfields looked at each
other.
“What an episode!” exclaimed Nan. “Did he really save her life, Fred?”
“He probably did. We can never say for certain, but at that crisis, a
natural sleep is a Godsend. He induced it, whether by a kind of
mesmerism, or whether because Patty cares so much for him, I can’t say.
I hate to think the latter——”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, you know that story Van Reypen tells, about
Farnsworth trying to get Patty to go on the operatic stage——”
“I never was sure about that—we didn’t hear it so very straight.”
“Well, and Farnsworth is not altogether of—of our own sort——”
“You mean, not the aristocrat Phil is?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, all that doesn’t matter just now. If the doctor says Bill saved
Patty’s life, I shall always adore him, and I shall erect a very high
monument to his honour. So there, now!”
Nan was almost gay. The revulsion of feeling brought about by Patty’s
improved condition made her so joyous she had to express it in some way.
First, she tiptoed to the door, and beckoned the nurse out. From her she
demanded and received assurance that Patty was really past the present
danger, and barring relapse or complication, would get well.
Then she flew to the telephone and told Mona, leaving her to pass the
glad news on to the others.
She wanted to call up Van Reypen, but was uncertain whether to do so or
not. He was but just returned from his aunt’s burial, and the time
seemed inopportune. Yet, he would be so anxious to hear, and perhaps no
one else would tell him.
So she called him, telling the servant who answered, who she was, and
saying Mr. Van Reypen might speak to her or not, as he wished.
“Of course I want to speak to you,” Phil’s deep voice responded; “how is
she?”
“Better, really better. She will get well, if there are no setbacks.”
“Oh, _I am_ so glad. Mrs. Nan, I have been so saddened these last few
days. I couldn’t go to you as I wished, because of affairs here. Now,
dear old aunty is laid to rest, and soon I must come over. I don’t hope
to see Patty, but I want a talk with you. May I come tonight?”
“Surely, Philip. Come when you will, you are always welcome.”
“But I don’t know,” Nan said to Fred Fairfield, “what Philip will say
when he knows who it was that brought about Patty’s recovery.”
“Need he know? Need anybody know? Perhaps when Patty can have a say in
the matter, she will not wish it known. The nurses won’t tell. Need we?”
“Perhaps not,” said Nan, thoughtfully.