By the time they were on their way home, the moon, no longer dodging
behind chimneys, had swaggered into the open. It was a hardened old
highwayman of a moon, red in the face and very full, and it declared with
every flashing beam that it was no respecter of persons, and that it
intended doing all the mischief possible down there in the little world
of men.
Miss Eleanor Bartlett was its first victim. In the white twilight she
forgot the social gap that lay between her and the youth beside her. She
ceased to observe the size and roughness of his hands, but noted instead
the fine breadth of his shoulders. She concerned herself no longer with
his verbal lapses, but responded instead to his glowing confidence that
everybody was as sincere and well intentioned as himself. She discovered
what the more sophisticated Rose had perceived at once--that Quinby
Graham "had a way with him," a beguiling, sympathetic way that made one
tell him things that one really didn't mean to tell any one. Of course,
it was partly due to the fact that he asked such outrageously direct
questions, questions that no one in her most intimate circle of friends
would dare to ask. And the queer part of it was that she was answering
them.
Before she realized it she was launched on a full recital of her woes,
her thwarted ambition to go on the stage, her grandmother's tyranny, the
indignity of being sent back to a school from which she had run away six
months before. She flattered herself that she was stating her case for
the sole purpose of getting an unprejudiced outsider's unbiased opinion;
but from the inflection of her voice and the expressive play of eyes and
lips it was evident that she was deriving some pleasure from the mere act
of thus dramatizing her woes before that wholly sympathetic audience of
one.
It was not until they reached the Eastern Parkway and were speeding
toward the twinkling lights of the city that their little bubble of
intimacy, blown in the moonlight, was shattered by a word.
"Say, Miss Eleanor," Quin blurted out unexpectedly, "do you like me?"
The question, together with the fact that he had dared used her first
name, brought her up with a start.
"Like you?" she repeated in her most conventional tone, "Why, of course.
Whatever made you think I didn't?"
"I didn't think that. But--do you like me enough to let me come to see
you when you come back?"
Now, a romantically wounded hero receiving favors in a hospital is one
thing, and an unknown discharged soldier asking them is quite another.
The very thought of Quinby Graham presenting himself as a caller, and the
comments that would follow made Eleanor shy away from the subject in
alarm.
"Oh, you'll be on the other side of the world by the time I get back,"
she said lightly.
"Not me. Not if there's a chance of seeing you again."
A momentary diversion followed, during which Eleanor fancied there was
something wrong with the radiator and expatiated at length on her
preference for air-cooled cars.
Quin listened patiently. A gentleman more versed in social subtleties
would have accepted the hint and said no more. But he was still laboring
under the error that language was invented to reveal rather than to
conceal thought.
"You didn't answer my question," he said, when Eleanor paused for breath.
"What question?"
"About my coming to see you."
She took shelter in a subterfuge.
"I told you that the family was horrid to everybody that came to see me.
To tell you the truth, I don't think you would be comfortable."
"I'm not afraid of 'em," Quin insisted fatuously. "I'd butt in anywhere
to get to see you."
Eleanor's eyes dropped under his gaze.
"You don't know my grandmother," she said; "and, what is much more
important, she doesn't know you."
"No, but she might like to," urged Quin, with one of his most engaging
smiles. "Old ladies and cats always cotton to me."
Eleanor laughed. It was impossible to be dignified and superior with a
person who didn't know the first rules of the game.
"She might," she admitted; "you never can tell about grandmother. She
really is a wonderful person in many ways, and just as generous and kind
when you are in trouble! But she says the most dreadful things; she's
always hurting people's feelings."
"She couldn't hurt mine, unless I let her," said Quin.
"Oh, yes, she could--you don't know her. But even if she happened to be
nice to you, there's Aunt Isobel."
"What is she like?"
"_Horribly_ good and conscientious, and shocked to death at everything
people do and say. I don't mean that she isn't awfully kind. She'll do
anything for you if you are sick. But Uncle Ranny says her sense of duty
amounts to a vice. Whatever she's doing, she thinks she ought to be doing
something else. And she expects you to be just as good as she is. If she
knew I was out here with a strange man to whom I'd never been
introduced----"
Eleanor was appalled at the effect upon her aunt of such indiscretion.
"Oh, I could handle her all right," said Quin boastfully. "I'd talk
foreign missions to her. Any others?"
"Heaps. There's Aunt Flo and Uncle Ranny. He's a dear, only he's the
black sheep of the family. He says I am a promising gray lamb, which
makes grandmother furious. They all let her twist them round her finger
but me. I won't twist. I never intend to."
"Is that all the family?"
"No; there's Aunt Enid. She is the nicest of them all."
"What is her line?"
"Oh, she's awfully good, too. But she's different from Aunt Isobel. She
was engaged to be married once, and grandmother broke it off because the
man was poor. I don't think she'll ever get over it."
"Do you think she would like me?" Quin anxiously inquired.
"Yes," admitted Eleanor, "I believe she would. She simply adores to mold
people. She doesn't care how many faults they have, if they will just let
her influence them to be better. And she does help loads of people. I am
her one failure. She wouldn't acknowledge it for the world, but I know
that I am the disappointment of Aunt Enid's life."
She gazed gloomily down the long moonlit road and lapsed into one of her
sudden abstractions. A belated compunction seized her for not going
straight home from the Martels', for being late for dinner on her last
night, for going on with her affair with Captain Phipps, when she had
been forbidden to see him.
"Miss Nell," said the persistent voice beside her, "do you know what I
intend to do while you are away?"
"No; what?"
"I'm going to start in to-morrow morning and make love to your whole darn
family!"
Now, if there is one thing Destiny admires in a man, it is his courage to
defy her. She relentlessly crushes the supine spirit who acquiesces, but
to him who snaps his fingers in her face she often extends a helping
hand. In this case she did not make Quin wait until the morrow to begin
his colossal undertaking. By means of a humble tack that lay in the way
of the speeding automobile, she at once set in motion the series of
events that were to determine his future life.
By the time the puncture was repaired and they were again on their way,
it was half-past seven and all hope of a timely arrival was abandoned. As
they slowed up at the Bartlett house, their uneasiness was increased by
the fact that lights were streaming from every window and the front door
was standing open.
"Is that the doctor?" an excited voice called to them from the porch.
"No," called back Eleanor, scrambling out of the car. "What is the
matter?"
No answer being received, she clutched Quin's sleeve nervously.
"Something has happened! Look, the front hall is full of people. Oh, I'm
afraid to go in! I----"
"Steady on!" said Quin, with a firm grip on her elbow as he marched her
up the steps and into the hall.
Everything was in confusion. People were hurrying to and fro, doors were
slamming, excited voices were asking questions and not waiting for
answers. "What's Dr. Snowden's telephone number?" "Can't they get another
doctor?" "Has somebody sent for Randolph?" "Are they going to try to move
her?" everybody demanded of everybody else.
Eleanor pushed through the crowd until she reached the foot of the steps.
There, lying on the floor, with her towering white pompadour crushed
ignominiously against the newel-post, lay the one person in the house who
could have brought prompt order out of the chaos. On one side of her
knelt Miss Enid frantically applying smelling salts, while on the other
stood Miss Isobel futilely wringing her hands and imploring some one to
go for a minister.
Suddenly the buzz of excited talk ceased. Madam was returning to
consciousness. She groaned heavily, then opened one eye.
"What's the matter?" she demanded feebly. "What's all this fuss about?"
"You fell down the steps, mother. Don't get excited; don't try to move."
But Madam had already tried, with the result that she fell back with a
sharp cry of pain.
"Oh, my leg, my leg!" she groaned. "What are you all standing around like
fools for? Why don't you send Tom for the doctor?"
"Tom isn't with us any more, dearest," said Aunt Enid with trembling
reassurance, "and Dr. Snowden is out of town. But we are trying to get
Dr. Bean."
"I won't have Bean," Madam declared, clinching her jaw with pain. "I'll
send him away if he comes."
"Dr. Vaughn, then?" suggested Miss Enid tenderly.
"Vaughn nothing! Send for Rawlins. He's an old stick, but he'll do till
Dr. Snowden gets here."
"But, mother," protested Miss Isobel. "Dr. Rawlins lives in the country;
he can't get here for half an hour."
"Do as I tell you and stop arguing," commanded Madam. "Has anybody
telephoned Ranny?"
The two sisters exchanged significant glances.
"Their line is busy," said Miss Enid soothingly. "We will get him soon."
"I want to be taken upstairs," announced Madam; "I want to be put in my
own bed."
A buzz of protest met this suggestion, and a small, nervous man in
clerical garb, who had just arrived, came forward to add his voice to the
rest.
Madam glared at him savagely. "There'll be plenty of time for parsons
when the doctors get through with me," she said. "Tell some of those
able-bodied men back there to come here and take me upstairs."
Quin, who had been standing in the background looking down at the
formidable old lady, promptly came forward.
"I'll take you up," he said. "Which leg is hurt?"
The old lady turned her head and looked up at him. The note of confidence
in his voice had evidently appealed to her.
"It's my left leg. I think it's broken just above the knee."
"Do you want me to put a splint on it?"
"Are you a doctor?"
"No, ma'am; but I can fix it so's it won't hurt you so bad when we move
you," Quin replied.
"How do you know you can?"
Quin ran his fingers through his hair and smiled.
"Well, I wasn't with the Ambulance Corps for six months in France for
nothing."
Madam eyed him keenly for a moment; then, "Go ahead," she commanded.
A chorus of protests from the surrounding group only deepened her
determination.
"It's _my_ leg," she said irritably. "If he knows how to splint it, let
him do it. I want to be taken upstairs."
It is difficult enough to apply a splint properly under favorable
circumstances; but when one has only an umbrella and table napkins to
work with, and is hemmed in by a doubtful and at times protesting
audience, it becomes well-nigh impossible.
Quin worked slowly and awkwardly, putting the bones as nearly as possible
in position and then binding them firmly in place. He paid no more
attention to the agitated comments of those about him than he had paid to
the whizzing bullets when he rendered first aid to a fallen comrade in No
Man's Land.
During the painful operation Madam lay with rigid jaws and clenched
fists. Small beads of perspiration gathered on her forehead and her lips
were white. Now and then she flinched violently, but only once did she
speak, and that was when Miss Enid held the smelling salts too close to
her high-bridged nose.
"Haven't I got enough to stand without that?" she sputtered, knocking the
bottle into the air and sending the contents flying over the polished
floor.
When Quin finished he looked at her with frank admiration.
"You got nerve, all right," he said; then he added gently: "Don't you
worry about getting upstairs; it won't hurt you much now."
"You stay and help," said Madam peremptorily.
"Sure," said Quin.
It was not until she was in her own bed, and word had come that Dr.
Rawlins was on his way, that she would let Quin go, and even then she
called him back.
"You! Soldier! Come here," was the faint edict from the canopied bed. She
was getting very weak from the pain, and her words came in gasps. "Do you
know where--the--Aristo Apartments are?"
"No, but I can find out," said Quin.
"I want you--to--go for my son--Mr. Randolph Bartlett. If he's not at
home--you find him. I'll make it--worth your while."
"I'll find him," Quin said, with a reassuring pat on her wrinkled hand.
As he went into the hall, Eleanor slipped out of the adjoining room and
followed him silently down the stairs. She did not speak until they were
at the front door, and even then took the precaution of stepping outside.
"I just wanted to come down and say good-by," she said.
"But you surely won't be going now?" said Quin hopefully.
"Yes, I'm to go. Grandmother has just told Aunt Isobel that everything is
to be carried out exactly as she planned it. But I wish they'd let me
stay and help. Poor granny!"
Her eyes brimmed with ready tears.
"She'll pull through all right," said Quin, to whom the tear-dimmed eyes
of youth were more unnerving than age's broken bones. "Don't worry, Miss
Eleanor, please. What time does your train go in the morning?"
"Ten-thirty."
"I'll be there at ten."
Eleanor brushed her tears away quickly. "No, no--you mustn't," she said
in quick alarm. "They don't know that we ever saw each other before. They
think you just happened to be passing and ran in to help. Oh, I don't
want to give them any more trouble. Promise me not to come!"
"Well, when you come back, then?"
"Yes, yes, when I come back," she whispered hurriedly. Then she put out
her hand impulsively. "I think you've been perfectly splendid to-night.
Good-by."
For a moment she stood there, her dainty figure silhouetted against the
bright doorway, with the light shining through her soft hair giving her
an undeserved halo. Then she was gone, leaving him on the steps in the
moonlight, tenderly contemplating the hand that had just held hers.