The girl Mary remembered had changed, more than the ten years accounted
for. There was nothing left of her youth. Her body was painfully thin,
a mere wisp, and the tight-fitting black dress emphasized each sharp
angle. There were great hollows in her face under the high cheek-bones
and in her neck, round which she wore a white lace collar fastened
by a large cameo brooch. Earrings to match the brooch, too heavy for
her face, brought out her dead pallor. Her brown eyes were dimmed and
slightly bloodshot from weeping. But her hair kept its vivid colour and
luxuriance.
Seeing Mary alone, she had stopped--stood there, looking sullen, biting
her lips. They gazed at one another. Mary was conscious of a remote
astonishment that Nora should look so angry.... Voices sounded in the
hall.
"There's the doctor," said Mary hurriedly, getting up. "Nora, how long
has--has he been ill exactly, do you know?"
"Since he came here Thursday afternoon--he was sick then but he
wouldn't let me send for a doctor--I wanted to--"
Her voice died away, again she had that sullen defensive look.
"I know. It isn't your fault--I'm sure you did everything you could,"
Mary said quickly in a neutral tone, and went out into the hall. She
felt extremely uncomfortable in Nora's presence, but there was no time
to think about that now.
* * * * *
Sayre was a young thickset man, with cool dark eyes, full of energy.
After seeing the patient, he sat down in the study and talked with
Mary. Finding her calm and alert, he explained the treatment he
proposed to give, a new method--plenty of air and food, and cold
baths. He cordially assented to calling Dr. Lowell, whom he had met
professionally. He thought they would need another nurse, as the
patient must be watched day and night. Mary eagerly asked if she could
not take the night-duty, but he shook his head; he preferred a trained
person, and it would take two of them to handle the baths. But she
could be on hand--when her husband was conscious he would want her
there. He was curt and grave and used no soothing phrases. Mary did not
ask what he thought of the outcome; she could tell from his manner what
he thought. He went away, saying that he would send for the night-nurse
and would return himself about midnight. She might telegraph to Dr.
Lowell if she wished.
* * * * *
Lavery had gone back to finish his dinner. When he came up Mary was in
the sickroom. The nurse had to give some medicine; twice a restless
movement of the patient had spilt it. Mary slipped her arm under
Laurence's head and held him still while the medicine was given. She
smoothed back his tumbled hair and laid her cool hand on his forehead.
For a moment he was quieter; the low muttering ceased, his eyelids
closed. She was on her knees by the bedside; and holding him so,
close to her, suddenly she felt stabbed to the heart, she could not
breathe for the pain.... Then Lavery came in. Laurence began again that
murmuring and tossed away from her. Presently she got up and went out.
She sank into one of the deep chairs in the study, leaned back and
closed her eyes till she could control the nervous trembling that shook
her. Lavery, lighting one of his thick black cigars, came and sat down
near her. He moved stiffly and a half-stifled groan escaped him. She
looked at his face, pale and puffy with bluish shadows under the eyes.
"You're tired out."
"Well, I'm tired--I was up last night a good deal," he admitted.
"You must go home now and rest, there's nothing more to do here. The
doctor's sending another nurse and he'll be in again himself.... You've
been very good."
"Oh," he said brusquely, "I guess it will be all right."
"Well, it may be a long illness, you know--weeks. Now--I want to ask
you--" she frowned and gazed at him haughtily. "Here we all are, you
see--the two nurses and me, and there'll be special cooking, and--Well,
how will she manage? It's her house, I suppose. I don't see how we can
all--"
"Nothing else to be done. She has a servant, I know, and you could
hire another one if you want. But she'll want to do something herself,
she,--oh, well, hang it, she's devoted to Laurence."
"I suppose so.... You know her, don't you, pretty well?"
"Oh, yes, I've been here a good deal. Laurence has always had his
rooms here ever since I've known him--it's quieter, you see, and--well,
Mary, I guess you knew about it, didn't you?"
"I did, and I didn't," said Mary clearly. "Long ago I did."
"Well, yes--he never said much to me, only that it was an old--affair.
Of course I could see how it was--more a responsibility, to him, than--"
"Oh, I understand, you needn't worry, so far as I'm concerned," said
Mary, coldly. "I just want Laurence to get well, and everybody will
have to do the best they can. It's--well, I can't talk to her tonight,
she's so upset, but I don't want her to feel that I've just walked in
and taken possession--after all, it's her house. She looks so--afraid,
and angry at me too--I can't help it, she ought to know I have to be
here. But I don't want to make it harder for her than--oh, well, I'll
have to talk to her. It doesn't matter very much anyway, what she feels
or what I feel. It doesn't seem very important."
"No, it doesn't," said Lavery absently.
They sat in silence for awhile. He pulled at his cigar, and brooded
with half-shut eyes. Mary lay back in the big chair, relaxed ... and a
feeling of the unreality of all about her made it seem that some bridge
between her and the world had dropped suddenly.... There was only a
tremendous vacancy, stillness, emptiness, pressed upon her....
Then into the void came a hoarse choking cry from the sick man. She
started up.