It was a miracle that they had got her husband to the hospital alive,
the doctors told Margaret, late that night. His life could be only a
question of moments. It was extraordinary that he should live through
the night, they told her the next morning; but it could not last more
than a few hours now. It was impossible for John Kirby to live, they
said; but John Kirby lived.
He lived, to struggle through agonies undreamed of, back to days of new
pain. There were days and weeks and months when he lay, merely
breathing, now lightly, now just a shade more deeply.
There came a day when great doctors gathered about him to exult that he
undoubtedly, indisputably winced when the hypodermic needle hurt him.
There was a great day, in late summer, when he muttered something. Then
came relapses, discouragements, the bitter retracing of steps.
On Christmas Day he opened his eyes, and said to the grave, thin woman
who sat with her hand in his:
"Margaret!"
He slipped off again too quickly to know that she had broken into tears
and fallen on her knees beside him.
After a while he sat up, and was read to, and finally wept because the
nurses told him that some day he would want to get up and walk about
again. His wife came every day, and he clung to her like a child.
Sometimes, watching her, a troubled thought would darken his eyes; but
on a day when they first spoke of the terrible past, she smiled at him
the motherly smile that he was beginning so to love, and told him that
all business affairs could wait. And he believed her.
One glorious spring afternoon, when the park looked deliriously fresh
and green from the hospital windows, John received permission to extend
his little daily walk beyond the narrow garden. With an invalid's
impatience, he bemoaned the fact that his wife would not be there that
day to accompany him on his first trip into the world.
His nurse laughed at him.
"Don't you think you're well enough to go and make a little call on
Mrs. Kirby?" she suggested brightly. "She's only two blocks away, you
know. She's right here on Madison Avenue. Keep in the sunlight and walk
slowly, and be sure to come back before it's cold, or I'll send the
police after you."
Thus warned, John started off, delighted at the independence that he
was gaining day after day. He walked the two short blocks with the care
that only convalescents know; a little confused by the gay, jarring
street noises, the wide light and air about him.
He found the address, but somehow the big, gloomy double house didn't
look like Margaret. There was a Mrs. Kirby there, the maid assured him,
however, and John sat down in a hopelessly ugly drawing-room to wait
for her. Instead, there came in a cheerful little woman who introduced
herself as Mrs. Kippam. She was of the chattering, confidential type so
often found in her position.
"Now, you wanted Mrs. Kirby, didn't you?" she said regretfully. "She's
out. I'm the housekeeper here, and I thought if it was just a question
of rooms, maybe I'd do as well?"
"There's some mistake," said John; and he was still weak enough to feel
himself choke at the disappointment. "I want Mrs. John Kirby--a very
beautiful Mrs. Kirby, who is quite prominent in--"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Mrs. Kippam, lowering her voice and growing
confidential. "That's the same one. Her husband failed, and all but
killed himself, you know--you've read about it in the papers? She sold
everything she had, you know, to help out the firm, and then she came
here--"
"Bought out an interest in this?" said John, very quietly, in his
winning voice.
"Well, she just came here as a regular guest at first," said Mrs.
Kippam, with a cautious glance at the door. "I was running it then; but
I'd got into awful debt, and my little boy was sick, and I got to
telling her my worries. Well, she was looking for something to do--a
companion or private secretary position--but she didn't find it, and
she had so many good ideas about this house, and helped me out so, just
talking things over, that finally I asked her if she wouldn't be my
partner. And she was glad to; she was just about worried to death by
that time."
"I thought Mrs. Kirby had property--investments in her own name?" John
said.
"Oh, she did, but she put everything right back into the firm," said
Mrs. Kippam. "Lots of her old friends went back on her for doing it,"
the little woman went on, in a burst of loyal anger. "However," she
added, very much enjoying her listener's close attention, "I declare my
luck seemed to change the day she took hold! First thing was that her
friends, and a lot that weren't her friends, came here out of
curiosity, and that advertised the place. Then she slaves day and
night, goes right into the kitchen herself and watches things; and she
has such a way with the help--she knows how to manage them. And the
result is that we've got the house packed for next winter, and we'll
have as many as thirty people here all summer long. I feel like another
person," the tears suddenly brimmed her weak, kind eyes, and she
fumbled with her handkerchief. "You'll think I'm crazy running on this
way!" said little Mrs. Kippam, "but everything has gone so good. My
Lesty is much better, and as things are now I can get him into the
country next year; and I feel like I owed it all to Margaret Kirby!"
John tried to speak, but the room was wheeling about him. As he raised
his trembling hand to his eyes, a shadow fell across the doorway, and
Margaret came in. Tired, shabby, laden with bundles, she stood blinking
at him a moment; and then, with a sudden cry of tenderness and pity,
she was on her knees by his side.
"Margaret! Margaret!" he whispered. "What have you done?"
She did not answer, but gathered him close in her strong arms, and they
kissed each other with wet eyes.