On the evening of the day of the trial, Mrs. Tynan, having fixed the
new blind to the window of Shiel Crozier’s room, which was on the
ground-floor front, was lowering and raising it to see if it worked
properly, when out in the moonlit street she saw a wagon approaching her
house surrounded and followed by obviously excited men. Once before she
had seen just such a group nearing her door. That was when her husband
was brought home to die in her arms. She had a sudden conviction, as,
holding the blind in her hand, she looked out into the night, that again
tragedy was to cross her threshold. Standing for an instant under
the fascination of terror, she recovered herself with a shiver, and,
stepping down from the chair where she had been fixing the blind, with
the instinct of real woman, she ran to the bed of the room where she
was, and made it ready. Why did she feel that it was Shiel Crozier’s bed
which should be made ready? Or did she not feel it? Was it only a dazed,
automatic act, not connected with the person who was to lie in the bed?
Was she then a fatalist? Were trouble and sorrow so much her portion
that to her mind this tragedy, whatever it was, must touch the man
nearest to her--and certainly Shiel Crozier was far nearer than Jesse
Bulrush. Quite apart from wealth or position, personality plays a part
more powerful than all else in the eyes of every woman who has a soul
which has substance enough to exist at all. Such men as Crozier have
compensations for “whate’er they lack.” It never occurred to Mrs. Tynan
to go to Jesse Bulrush’s room or the room of middle-aged, comely Nurse
Egan. She did the instinctive thing, as did the woman who sent a man a
rope as a gift, on the ground that the fortune in his hand said that he
was born not to be drowned.
Mrs. Tynan’s instinct was right. By the time she had put the bed into
shape, got a bowl of water ready, lighted a lamp, and drawn the bed out
from the wall, there was a knocking at the door. In a moment she had
opened it, and was faced by John Sibley, whose hat was off as though
he were in the presence of death. This gave her a shock, and her eyes
strove painfully to see the figure which was being borne feet foremost
over her threshold.
“It’s Mr. Crozier?” she asked.
“He was shot coming home here--by the M’Mahon mob, I guess,” returned
Sibley huskily.
“Is--is he dead?” she asked tremblingly. “No. Hurt bad.”
“The kindest man--it’d break Kitty’s heart--and mine,” she added
hastily, for she might be misunderstood; and John Sibley had shown signs
of interest in her daughter.
“Where’s the Young Doctor?” she asked, catching sight of Crozier’s face
as they laid him on the bed. “He’s done the first aid, and he’s off
getting what’s needed for the operation. He’ll be here in a minute or
so,” said a banker who, a few days before, had refused Crozier credit.
“Gently, gently--don’t do it that way,” said Mrs. Tynan in sharp reproof
as they began to take off Crozier’s clothes.
“Are you going to stay while we do it?” asked a maker of mineral waters,
who whined at the prayer meetings of a soul saved and roared at his
employees like a soul damned.
“Oh, don’t be a fool!” was the impatient reply. “I’ve a grown-up girl
and I’ve had a husband. Don’t pull at his vest like that. Go away. You
don’t know how. I’ve had experience--my husband... There, wait till
I cut it away with the scissors. Cover him with the quilt. Now, then,
catch hold of his trousers under the quilt, and draw them off slowly....
There you are--and nothing to shock the modesty of a grown-up woman or
any other when a life’s at stake. What does the Young Doctor say?”
“Hush! He’s coming to,” interposed the banker. It was as though the
quiet that followed the removal of his clothes and the touch of Mrs.
Tynan’s hand on his head had called Crozier back from unconsciousness.
The first face he saw was that of the banker. In spite of the loss of
blood and his pitiable condition, a whimsical expression came to his
eyes. “Lucky for you you didn’t lend me the money,” he said feebly.
The banker shook his head. “I’m not thinking of that, Mr. Crozier. God
knows, I’m not!”
Crozier caught sight of Mrs. Tynan. “It’s hard on you to have me brought
here,” he murmured as she took his hand.
“Not so hard as if they hadn’t,” she replied. “That’s what a home’s
for--not just a place for eating and drinking and sleeping.”
“It wasn’t part of the bargain,” he said weakly.
“It was my part of the bargain.”
“Here’s Kitty,” said the maker of mineral waters, as there was the swish
of a skirt at the door.
“Who are you calling ‘Kitty’?” asked the girl indignantly, as they
motioned her back from the bedside. “There’s too many people here,”
she added abruptly to her mother. “We can take care of him”--she nodded
towards the bed. “We don’t want any help except--except from John
Sibley, if he will stay, and you too,” she added to the banker.
She had not yet looked at the figure on the bed. She felt she could not
do so while all these people were in the room. She needed time to adjust
herself to the situation. It was as though she was the authority in the
household and took control even of her mother. Mrs. Tynan understood.
She had a great belief in her daughter and admired her cleverness, and
she was always ready to be ruled by her; it was like being “bossed” by
the man she had lost.
“Yes, you’d all better go,” Mrs. Tynan said. “He wants all the air he
can get, and I can’t make things ready with all of you in the room. Go
outdoors for a while, anyway. It’s summer and you’ll not take cold! The
Young Doctor has work to do, and my girl and I and these two will help
him plenty.” She motioned towards the banker and the gambling farmer.
In a moment the room was cleared of all save the four and Crozier,
who knew that upon the coming operation depended his life. He had been
conscious when the Young Doctor said this was so, and he was thinking,
as he lay there watching these two women out of his nearly closed eyes,
that he would like to be back in Ireland at Castlegarry with the girl he
had married and had left without a good-bye near five years gone. If he
had to die he would like to die at home; and that could not be.
Kitty had the courage to turn towards him now. As she caught sight
of his face for the first time--she had so far kept her head turned
away--she became very pale. Then, suddenly, she gathered herself
together. Going over to the bed, she took the limp hand lying on the
coverlet.
“Courage, soldier,” she said in the colloquialism her father often used,
and she smiled at Crozier a great-hearted, helpful smile.
“You are a brick of bricks, Kitty Tynan,” he whispered, and smiled.
“Here comes the Young Doctor,” said Mrs. Tynan as the door opened
unceremoniously.
“Well, I have to make an excursion,” Crozier said, “and I mayn’t come
back. If I don’t, au revoir, Kitty.”
“You are coming back all right,” she answered firmly. “It’ll take more
than a horse-thief’s bullet to kill you. You’ve got to come back. You’re
as tough as nails. And I’ll hold your hand all through it--yes, I will!”
she added to the Young Doctor, who had patted her shoulder and told her
to go to another room.
“I’m going to help you, doctor-man, if you please,” she said, as he
turned to the box of instruments which his assistant held.
“There’s another--one of my colleagues--coming I hope,” the Young Doctor
replied.
“That’s all right, but I am staying to see Mr. Crozier through. I said
I’d hold his hand, and I’m going to do it,” she added firmly.
“Very well; put on a big apron, and see that you go through with us if
you start. No nonsense.”
“There’ll be no nonsense from me,” she answered quietly.
“I want the bed in the middle of the room,” the Young Doctor said, and
the others gently moved it.