Notwithstanding the fact that the sale of the Martels' house was averted
and Rose's affair with Harold Phipps successfully terminated,
catastrophe, which was evidently due the family, arrived before the
summer had fairly begun. The irrepressible Claude had no sooner weighed
the anchor of responsibility than he set sail for New York to embark once
more on dramatic waters. He had secured a small part in a summer stock
company which would leave him ample time to work on "Phantom Love," which
he confidently counted upon to retrieve his fortunes. The withdrawal of
even his slender contribution to the household expenses made a
difference, especially as Edwin came down with the measles early in July.
Before the boy had got the green shade off his afflicted eyes, Cass was
laid low with typhoid fever.
No other event in the family could have wrought such disastrous results.
Rose was compelled to give up her position to nurse him, and while the
income ceased the expenses piled up enormously.
Nothing was more natural than that Quinby Graham should fling himself
into the breach. His intimacy with Cass had begun on the transport going
to France, and continued with unabated zeal until he was wounded in the
summer of 1918. For six months he had lost sight of him, only to find him
again in the hospital at Camp Zachary Taylor. He was not one to share the
privileges of Cass's home without also sharing its hardships.
"It's a shame we've got to take help from you," said Rose; "just when you
are beginning to get ahead, too!"
"You cut that out," said Quin. "I'd like to know if you didn't take me in
and treat me like one of the family? Ain't Cass the best friend a man
ever had? And wouldn't he do as much and more for me?"
But even Quin's salary failed to meet the emergency. Doctor's bills, drug
bills, grocery bills, became more and more formidable. One day Rose was
reduced to selling two of Papa Claude's autographed photographs.
"I wouldn't do that--yet," said Quin, who had begun to walk to the
factory to save carfare. "Those old boys and girls are his friends; we
can't sell them. I can see him now talking to 'em through his pipe smoke.
I ought to have some junk we can soak. Let's go see."
The investigation resulted in the conversion of a pair of new wing-toed
dancing-shoes and a silver cigarette-case into an ice-bag and an electric
fan.
"I could stand everything else," said Rose, "if we could just get the
children out of the house. Edwin is still as weak as a kitten, and Myrna
looks as if she might come down with the fever any day."
Quin had a brilliant idea. "Why not ship 'em both to the country? Ed
could come to town to work every day, and Myrna could help somebody
around the house."
"That sounds mighty fine; but who is going to take two children to board
for nothing?"
"I don't know yet," said Quin; "that's what I've got to find out."
That night he went out to Valley Mead and put the matter squarely up to
Mr. and Mrs. Ranny.
"We're up against it at our house," he said; "I want to borrow something
from you two good people."
"You can have anything we've got!" said Mr. Ranny rashly.
"Well, I want to borrow some fresh air for a couple of sick kids. I want
you to ask 'em out here for a week."
Mr. and Mrs. Ranny looked aghast at the preposterous suggestion, but Quin
gave them no time to demur. He plunged into explanation, and clinched his
argument by saying:
"Ed would only be here at night, and Myrna could help around the house.
They are bully youngsters. No end of fun, and they wouldn't give you a
bit of trouble."
"But I have only one maid!" protested Mrs. Ranny.
"What of that?" said Quin. "Myrna's used to working at home; she'd be
glad to help you."
"If it was anybody on earth but the Martels," Mr. Ranny objected, with
contracted brow. "The families have been at daggers' points for years.
Why, the very name of Martel makes mother see red."
"Well, the children aren't responsible for that!" Quin broke in
impatiently; then he pulled himself up. "However, if you don't want to do
'em a good turn, that settles it."
"But it doesn't settle it," said Mr. Ranny. "What are you going to do
with them?"
"Hanged if I know," said Quin; "but you bet I'll do something."
The conversation then wandered off to Eleanor, and Quin listened with
vague misgivings to accounts of her good times--yachting parties, tennis
tournaments, rock teas, shore dinners--all of which suggested to him an
appallingly unfamiliar world.
"I tell you who was up there for a week," said Mr. Ranny. "Harold Phipps.
You remember meeting him at our apartment last spring?"
"What's he doing there?" Quin demanded with such vehemence that they both
laughed.
"Probably making life miserable for Mother Bartlett," said Mrs. Ranny. "I
can't imagine how she ever consented to have him come, or how he ever had
the nerve to go, after the way they've treated him."
"Harold's not concerned with the feelings of the family," said Mr. Ranny;
"he is after Nell."
But Mrs. Ranny scorned the idea. "He looks upon her as a perfect child,"
she insisted; "besides, he's too lazy and conceited to be in love with
anybody but himself."
"That may be, but Nell's got him going all right."
Then the conversation veered back to the Martels, with the result that an
hour later Quin was on his way home bearing a gracefully worded note from
Mrs. Ranny inviting the children to spend the following week at Valley
Mead. But, in spite of the success of his mission, he sat with a box of
fresh eggs in his lap and a huge bunch of flowers in his hand, his hat
rammed over his eyes, staring gloomily out of the car window into the
starless night.
Since Eleanor's departure he had had no word from her, and the news that
filtered through Valley Mead was more disconcerting than the silence. The
thought of her dancing, sailing, and motoring with Harold Phipps filled
him with a frenzy of jealousy. He grew bitter at the thought of her
flitting heedlessly from one luxurious pleasure to another, while Cass
lay in that stifling city, fighting for his life and lacking even the
necessities for his comfort.
Every week since her departure he had written her, even though the
letters grew shorter and blunter as his duties increased. Up until now,
however, he, like every one else, had tried to shield Eleanor from
anything ugly and sordid. He had tried to make light of the situation and
reassure her as to results; but he was determined to do it no longer. It
wasn't right, he told himself angrily, for anybody to go through life
blinded to all the misery and suffering and poverty in the world. He was
going to write her to-night and tell her the whole story and spare her
nothing.
But he did not write. When he reached home Cass had had a turn for the
worse, and there were ice-baths to prepare and other duties to perform
that left him no time for himself.
The next day Edwin and Myrna were sent out to the Randolph Bartletts',
and Rose and Quin cleared the decks for the hard fight ahead. Fan Loomis
came in to help nurse in the day-time, and Quin was on duty through the
long, suffocating August nights.
At the end of the week Cass's condition was so serious that the Bartletts
insisted on keeping the children at the farm. Myrna had proved a cheery,
helpful little companion, and Edwin, while more difficult to handle, was
picking up flesh and color, and was learning to run the car.
Cass's fever dragged on, going down one day only to rise higher the next.
Seven weeks, eight weeks, nine weeks passed, and still no improvement.
Quin, trying to keep up his work at the factory on two or three hours'
sleep out of the twenty-four, grew thin and haggard, and coughed more
than at any time since he had left the hospital. During the long night
vigils he made sporadic efforts to keep up his university work, but he
made little headway.
"Go on to bed, Quin," Rose whispered one night, when she found him asleep
with his head against the bed-post. "You'll be giving out next, and God
knows what I'll do then."
"Not me!" he declared, suppressing a yawn. "You're the one that's done
in. Why don't you stay down?"
"I can't," she murmured, kneeling anxiously beside the unconscious
patient. "He looks worse to me to-night. Do you believe we can pull him
through?"
She had on a faded pink kimono over her thin night-gown, and her heavy
hair was plaited down her back. There were no chestnut puffs over her
ears or pink spots on her cheeks, and her lips looked strange without
their penciled cupid's bow. But to Quin there was something in her drawn
white face and anxious, tender eyes that was more appealing. In their
long siege together he had found a staunch dependence and a power of
sacrifice in the girl that touched him deeply.
"I don't know, Rose," he admitted, reaching over and smoothing her hair;
"but we'll do our darnedest."
At the touch of his hand she reached up and impulsively drew it down to
her cheek, holding it there with her trembling lips against its hard
palm.
The night was intensely hot and still. That afternoon they had moved Cass
into Rose's room in the hope of getting more air from the western
exposure; but only the hot smell of the asphalt and the stifling odor of
car smoke came through the curtainless window. The gas-jet, turned very
low, threw distorted shadows on the bureau with its medley of toilet
articles and medicine bottles. Through the open door of the closet could
be seen Rose's personal belongings; under the table were a pair of
high-heeled slippers; and two white stockings made white streaks across
the window-sill.
Quin sat by Cass's bedside, with his hand clasped to Rose's cheek, and
fought a battle that had been raging within him for days. Without being
in the least in love with Rose, he wanted desperately to take her in his
arms and comfort her. They were both so tired, so miserable, so
desperately afraid of that shadowy presence that hovered over Cass. They
were practically alone in the house, accountable to no one, and drawn
together by an overwhelming anxiety. In Rose's state of emotional tension
she was responsive to his every look and gesture. He had but to hold out
his arms and she would sink into them.
Again and again his eyes traveled from her bright tumbled head to Cass's
flushed face, with its absurd round nose and eyes that could no longer
keep watch over a pleasure-loving sister. What would happen if Cass
should die? Who would take care of her and the children, helpless and
penniless, with only Papa Claude and his visions to stand between them
and the world? A great wave of sympathy rushed over him for the girl
kneeling there with her face buried in the bed-clothes. She had asked so
little of life--just a few good times to offset the drudgery, just an
outlet for the ocean of love that was dammed up in her small body. Love
was the only thing she cared about; it was the only thing that mattered
in life. Cass never understood her, but Quin understood her. He was like
that himself. The blood was pounding through his veins too, a terrible
urgence was impelling him toward her. Why shouldn't they throw discretion
to the winds and answer the call?
Then his mind did a curious thing. It brought up out of the sub-conscious
a question that Eleanor Bartlett had once asked him: "Do you think a
person has a right to go ahead and do what he wants, regardless of
consequences?" He saw her face, moonlit and earnest, turned up to his,
and he heard himself answering her: "That depends on whether he wants the
right thing."
Rose stirred, and he withdrew his hand and stood up.
"See here, young lady," he said with authority; "I'll give you just two
minutes to clear out of here! No, I don't want you to leave your door
open; I'll call you if there's any change."
"But, Quin, I don't want to be alone--I want to be with you." Her eyes
were full of frank appeal, and her lips trembling.
"You are too sleepy to know what you want," he said. "Up with you--not
another word. You'll feel better to-morrow. Good-night." And with a
little push he put her out of the room and closed the door.