"An' then, there was wild buckwheat, an' Jewel-weed an'--now, what's the
matter with me, for a farmer? Don't I know a thing or two about the
country?"
"You certainly do."
"An' _I_ know the name o' some too," asserted Cora. "Brides-lace, and
Love-in-a-mist, and----"
"Sweet Sibyl of the Sweat-shop, or----"
"Mother, I think you're real mean!" Cora cried, anxious to prevent
further betrayal.
"Say, ladies an' gen'lmen, I hate to break up this pleasant
ent'tainment, but I guess you don't realize how long we been dreamin'
the happy hours away, like Miss Frances Underwood used to sing, before
she married Judge Granville--which they ain't so _happy_ now, not on
your life, poor dear! I think we better get a move on, or we'll get
soaked good and plenty. It's my opinion we're goin' to have a shower."
Claire did not attempt to argue the point. It was too evident that
something was really going to happen.
"Yes, let's hurry," was all she said. "It's later than I thought."
Martha summoned her straying flock, and they made for the boat.
The little clouds, no bigger than a man's hand, had turned gray.
Francie's friends, the gulls, were darting excitedly to and fro, as if
without direction, very close to the face of the water. Here and there
the lake showed a white-cap.
Martha stood at the wheel, in the bow, and steered straight for the
opposite shore.
For a while Mrs. Ronald kept up a careless chatter with the children,
then, as if by common consent, there was silence.
A sharp wind had risen out of nowhere, apparently, and begun to lash the
water into frothy fringes that tossed their beads of spray high over the
side of the boat. Suddenly Francie screamed. This time it was not the
spray, but the wave itself that the blast rushed before it to break full
upon _The Moth_, drenching the child to the skin.
Martha glanced around to see what the trouble was.
"There's some tarpaulin under the seats," she shouted back over her
shoulder, "wrap it about you an'--dry up!"
Again there was silence, while the clouds massed themselves into granite
barricades, shutting out the light, and the gale gathered force and fury
with every second. It was impossible, now, to see the farther shore.
The little _Moth_ seemed blindly fluttering in a dense mesh of gray mist
impossible to penetrate.
"We're going every _which way_!" moaned Cora.
At the same instant--"The rudder-ropes, Sammy!" shouted Martha.
The boy slipped from his place, and, by sense of touch alone, found the
cause of the obstruction, and freed the ropes.
_The Moth_ gave a leap forward into the mist.
"I'm afraid!" roared Sabina in no uncertain voice.
"What you afraid of?" came back from the bow. "Don't you know, if there
was any danger _I'd get out_!"
To the children, accustomed as they were to accept their mother's word
without question, the statement carried instant reassurance. Sabina
stopped roaring, and Francie only screamed when each new wave broke over
her, threatening to swamp the boat.
"Hush, Francie!" called Miss Claire at length in a tense, strained
voice. "You'll make your mother nervous."
Martha, hearing, answered back, "She don't make me nervous. There's
nothing to be nervous about. Let her scream, if it makes her happy."
Francie stopped screaming.
All the while the throbbing of the little engine had been steady,
incessant. But now Martha noticed that, at intervals, it missed a beat.
She waited to see if it would right itself. A minute, and it had ceased
altogether.
"Sammy!"
It only needed that to send the boy crawling, on his hands and knees, to
start it up afresh, if he could--working, as his father had taught him
to work.
_The Moth_ spun around and around, in the trough of the waves.
Martha "knew what she knew," but her hands never left the wheel for an
instant. What if the engine could not be made to go? What could she
say to Mr. Frank if----? No, there was this comfort, if the worst came
to the worst _she_ would be the last to have a chance to say anything,
to any of those waiting on the shore....
She heard the steady heart-beat start afresh.... The boy was back in his
place. Martha, with new courage, strained her vision to pierce through
the curtain of mist and rain, could see nothing, but clung to her wheel.
At length she realized she was steering toward something that she, alone
of all the little group, could see--a faint adumbration, showing dark
through the pall of enveloping gray.
But now the wind and the water were so high it was impossible to steer
straight for the home-shore--she could only make it by slow degrees.
The storm had whipped her thick hair out of its customary coils. It
blew about her face and shoulders in long, wet strands, buffeting her,
blinding her. She never lifted a hand to save herself the stinging
strokes.
Little by little the dark line widened, the way was made plain. Little
by little Martha wheedled _The Moth_ shoreward.
"I see somepn'," shouted Francie, at last. "I see our dock!" After an
interval: "I see folks on our dock!" Later still: "I see father, 'n'
Mr. Ronald, 'n' Ma, 'n'--oh! lots o' folks!"
_The Moth_ fluttered forward. The waves beat her back. She seemed to
submit with meekness, but a second later, seeing her chance, she dodged
neatly, and sped on again, so, at last, gaining the quiet water of the
little bay.
Mr. Ronald and Sam Slawson, in silence, made her fast to her moorings.
In silence, Martha gave Claire into her husband's arms. He wrapped the
shaking little figure about, in warm dry coverings, and carried her
home, as he would a child.
The second they were out of sight and hearing, a babel of voices rose,
Ma's shrill, high treble piping loud above the rest:
"When we saw the tempest gatherin', an' youse out in it, on the deep,
an' not a boat could make to get to youse, the fear was in me heart, I
didn't have a limb to move."
A burly form shoved her unceremoniously aside,
Joe Harding approached Martha, implanted a sounding kiss on her cheek.
"By gum, you're a cracker-jack, Mrs. Slawson, and no mistake!" he
announced.
One by one the little knot of men and women followed suit, Fred
Trenholm, Nancy Lentz, Mr. Peckett--all who, by the wireless telegraph
that, in the country, flashes the news from house to house, had heard of
_The Moth's_ danger, and had come over to help if they could,
and--couldn't.
Martha looked from one to the other in surprise.
"Well, what do you think o' that!" she managed to articulate through her
chattering teeth, and then could say no more.
"Come along home, Martha," urged Sam gently.
*CHAPTER XII*
At first it seemed as if no one was to be any the worse for the
morning's adventure.
As soon as she had attended to the children, had changed her own cold,
drenched garments for dry, Martha hastened over to the big house.
Tyrrell, the butler, informed her that Mrs. Ronald was resting quietly
enough now, but they had been uncommonly anxious about her at the start.
The shock had unnerved her. When her husband carried her in, she was
crying like a baby.
"Well, you know where to find me, if, when she wakes, she seems the
least bit ailin'. All you have to do is ring me up, an' I'll be over in
the shake of a lamb's tail."
But when the day passed, and there was no summons, when supper was over
and the children, including Cora and Ma, in bed, Martha could stand it
no longer.
"I just _got_ to go over, an' see for myself how the land lays," she
explained to Sam. "I know it's silly, but I just _got_ to."
"All right. Come along," said Sam.
Martha shook her head. "No, you don't. Somebody's needed here in case,
while I'm between this an' the big house, the telephone'd ring."
Patient Sam acquiesced at once. "Have it your own way. You've earned
the right to have notions, and be fidgety if you want to. But no news
is good news, an' what you'll make by running over there at this hour of
night, when they said they'd 'phone if anything was needed, I don't
know."
"I'll sleep better if I see for myself," was all the explanation Martha
could give.
It was very dark, outside, once she got beyond the light from the Lodge
windows. In her haste she had forgotten to bring the lantern with her,
but she did not go back for it, because she felt she knew every inch of
the ground, and, moreover, the impulse that drew her forth was so strong
that she could not endure the idea of delay for a moment. She had
discovered a short-cut across the grounds and meant to use it, though
she knew Sam disapproved any trespassing on his adored lawns, hedges,
and shrubberies, and, as a general rule, she respected his wishes. But
now she made straight for the thicket of bushes walling in her
kitchen-garden, meaning to push through it, at the point of least
resistance, strike across the roadway and so slice off a good quarter of
a mile, by bisecting the lawn sweeping up to the big house. Just within
the thicket she stood as if at attention. For the life of her she could
not have said what brought her to a standstill, but also, for the life
of her, she could not go on until she knew what was on the other side of
that wall of bushes.
Listening, she could hear nothing but the common-place night-sounds, now
grown familiar to her ears. The stirrings of leaves, when the wind
sighed through them, the surreptitious whirr of wings aloft, up over the
tree-tops, the lowly meanderings of insects among the grass, the soft
pad-pad of tiny, furry feet scampering to safety. But there was still
another sound, an unusual, unfamiliar sound. It came to Martha in a
flash what it was. A fox, caught in one of Sam's traps.
"Oh, you poor devil, you!" she heard herself exclaim.
The words were echoed by a human groan, so close at hand, she fairly
started.
"Who are you?" Her question rang out sharply.
"None of your damned business!" came back in instant answer. "But since
you're here, curse you! come, and get me out of this ---- ---- trap."
A light flashed, by which Martha made out a man's figure crouching on
the ground the other side of the hedge. His face was completely hidden,
not alone by the drooping brim of his soft hat, but by a sort of black
mask he wore. Without a moment's hesitation she forced her way through
the hedge. Now she could see more plainly, she made out that the man was
on his hands and knees. One hand was free--the other, caught in the
fox-trap, was bleeding cruelly. On the ground, within easy reach lay a
pistol, a bundle of fagots, and a bull's-eye electric torch. The man's
uninjured left hand was clutching the torch.
"Doncher stir a muscle, Mr. Buller," Martha said imperatively, "till I
make out how this thing works. I don't want to hurt you more than I got
to, unspringin' the trap."
Buller swore violently as he bade her, "Go ahead then, and be quick
about it!"
A moment, and the mangled hand was free. Instantly, its owner listed
over on the grass in a dead faint, in total darkness.
Martha felt about in the darkness for the torch, set it glowing and, by
aid of its light, found a flask in Buller's pocket, some of the contents
of which she forced between his lips. When he was fully conscious, she
bade him pick up his belongings, and come along home with her, where she
could look after his hand, and, if necessary, telephone for the doctor.
Clutching at her shoulder, he staggered to his feet.
"Don't forget your gun," warned Martha drily.
"Damn the gun!" returned Buller.
Somehow they reached the Lodge. Sam, hearing footsteps, came to the
door with an anxious face.
"Martha," he whispered, before he had made out she was not alone, "hurry
back to the big house. Mr. Ronald's just called you up this minute. His
wife wants you, and--I'm going for the doctor."
Martha pushed Buller forward into the entry.
"Look after'm, Sam. He was on his way to give us a call. With his
pistol an' a bunch o' kindlin's to fire the house. He heard me comin',
an' lay low for a minute, an' got caught in the trap you set for--the
other fox. But take care of'm," she said, and vanished into the night.
Neither Sam nor Buller spoke for a moment. Then Sam opened the
sitting-room door.
"Come in," he invited the other. "Let's take a look at your hand."
The tortured Buller thrust it forward where the lamplight could fall
upon it. Sam shook his head.
"That's beyond me," he explained. "But I tell you what, I'm going for
Dr. Driggs, anyhow. You get in the car and come along with me. Only, I
better take that black dingus off your face, hadn't I?"
Buller made a clumsy effort to detach it himself, but his left hand
alone could not manage it. Sam did it for him.
"Now, as soon as I get the car," he explained, "we can start."
While he was gone Buller paced the floor like a caged animal, writhing
with pain, crying, cursing. Sam was gone but a few minutes. It seemed
an eternity to the poor, waiting wretch. Then away they sped through
the cool, calming darkness of the night.
In the extremity of his anguish, nothing really signified to Buller, yet
again and again he found himself wondering if Slawson would "split" on
him. As a matter of fact, Sam never opened his lips, beyond delivering
his message to the doctor from Mr. Ronald, then turning Buller over to
him for immediate attention.
The old physician scowled through his spectacles when he saw the wound.
"How did you manage _this_ job?" he asked in his blunt, uncompromising
way.
Buller winced. "Trap. Foxes after my hens. I set a trap to catch
them."
"And got caught in it yourself! Huh! That's sometimes the way. Here,
swallow this down. It'll dull the pain some. Now is the time you may
wish you weren't a drinking man, Buller. I'll do the best I can for
you, but you've given yourself a nasty hurt, and your blood's not in a
state to help the healing along much. However, we'll see what we'll
see. I'll give you these extra drops to take home with you. Use them if
the pain comes back. Don't meddle with my bandage, d'you hear. Leave
it alone. And, let me see you in the morning. Now, Mr. Slawson----
Ready!"
Again that swift, almost silent speeding through the night.
Since Buller's torture had ceased, the motion seemed for him part of a
blissful dream, by which he was being gradually lulled to deeper and
deeper peace. At first he started in to babble fatuously, but Dr.
Driggs brusquely bade him, "Shut up! This is no time for merrymaking!"
and he dropped back into himself, subdued but not suppressed.
At the big house Sam stopped his car.
"I'll take Buller home, and come back for you," he explained to Dr.
Driggs.
"Better dump him out on the road," was the harsh, whispered rejoinder.
"I know him from the ground up. He lied to me about his hand. He was
up to deviltry of some kind, other than trapping foxes, depend upon it!
Between you and me, that's a fierce hand he's got. I don't envy him his
dance with it."
In the meantime, Martha had found Claire Ronald feverish and excited.
It did not take her long to decide she would not leave the big house
that night. When Sam returned to take him home, Dr. Driggs was not
ready to go. Neither was Martha.
"But _you'd_ better turn in, Slawson," advised Mr. Ronald. "No use in
everybody's getting worn out. If I should need you, I'll call you up."
Early next morning the young kitchen-maid from the big house appeared at
the Lodge door for certain necessaries Martha wanted and could not be
spared long enough to come, herself, and fetch.
"Eh, now! You don't say so! Things must be pretty bad over there!"
observed Ma.
The girl nodded dumbly. She adored Mrs. Ronald.
"If I was you, beggin' pardon for the liberty," Martha addressed Mr.
Frank, "I'd get a-holt of those doctors an' nurses from the city you
have engaged. They was comin' up in two weeks, anyhow. You never can
tell. This might be a false alarm, but then again it mightn't. Either
way, we don't want to take no risks."
"I'll telegraph," said Francis Ronald dully.
"What's the matter with the telefoam? Ain't you got a long-distance
connection here?"
While Central was clearing the wire, Katherine Crewe was ushered in.
She hesitated on the library threshold, then came forward rapidly, her
face more lovely than Martha had ever seen it, in its softened
expression of human sympathy.
"I'm so sorry--I've just heard--I came to see if I could do
something--be of any help," she stammered shyly.
Frank Ronald had risen and was about to reply, when Dr. Driggs pushed
through the doorway, interrupting gruffly.
"I'm not quite satisfied with the way things are going. Nothing to be
uneasy about, you know, but, under the circumstances, I'd like another
man to talk the case over with."
"I've just called up the New York specialist. He and the nurses----"
"Lord! I don't mean _that_! It'll take _them_ a full day to get here.
We can't wait that long. I want some one _now_."
"Now?" Frank Ronald echoed, without any appearance of understanding what
the word meant.
"Now," repeated Dr. Driggs. "I'd like to call in----"
Tinkled the telephone-bell with irritating insistence.
Frank Ronald's cold hand gripped the thing as if he would choke it.
"Hello! Is this New York? Is this Dr. Webster? 'Morning, Dr. Webster!
This is F. B. Ronald speaking. Yes--I've called you up, because my
wife---- Can you hear me _now_? Is this better?--My wife--I'm worried
about my wife. I've called in Dr. Driggs of this village. He wants
more advice.... Yes, by all means come on at once, and bring the
nurses. But Driggs says he can't wait. Must have some one
immediately.... Eh? ... _Who_, do you say? ... Boston? Yes, I get that
... Ballard of Boston? ... There's a young fellow here from Boston named
Ballard, but he ... I don't believe he's the man. Wait a minute....
Please repeat that! ... You say he's the best skill in New England?
National repute? ... I'm afraid.... Hello! Dr. Webster ... Driggs,
here, says _'tis_ the man you mean. He says he was just trying to tell
me, when ... yes ... I'm sure we can get him. Yes, we _are_ in luck!
... Very well ... Burbank Junction ... midnight.... Good-by!"
Francis Ronald's words and manner were painfully precise.
Thought Martha, "I've seen parties none too steady on their pins, just
that kind o' mincin' about their steps. As if they'd dare you say they
couldn't walk a chalk-line. Poor fella. He's so crazed with worry he
can't see straight, but he's goin' to prove anybody thinks so, is
another!"
When Katherine reached home she found Madam Crewe awaiting her.
"Well, and how are things going? You had your tramp for nothing, eh?
Young Sammy's account of Mrs. Ronald's danger was hocus-pocus, of
course!"
"No. Dr. Driggs is very anxious. He wants a consultation. While I was
there Mr. Ronald called up Dr. Webster--_Elihu_ Webster, from home.
He's coming up with two nurses----"
"And Mrs. Ronald is going to _wait_ for him? That's obliging of her, I'm
sure!"
"Dr. Driggs had asked Mr. Ronald to let him have Dr. Ballard. He had
asked, before they got Dr. Webster on the wire. Then, the first name
Dr. Webster suggested was Dr. Ballard's. He called him 'the best skill
in New England.' Said he was of 'national repute.'"
"You mean Driggs did. Well, what then? Driggs is getting old. He
sometimes muddles. He's probably got this young sprig here confused
with the great one."
"No, grandmother. Dr. Webster said it. Dr. Driggs only repeated what
Dr. Webster said."
During the pause following Katherine's statement, Madam Crewe sat quite
still, apparently absorbed in contemplation of her two, tiny hands,
lying folded and motionless in her lap. When, at length, she looked up,
a curious ghost of a smile curled the corners of her mouth.
"Really I am uncommonly gratified. You see, I can't help thinking, how
barely I missed the honor of being this young man's grandmother. I'd
have _liked_ to have a grandchild of whom I could be proud."
Katherine winced. "I'm sorry I've disappointed you," she said bitterly.
"Don't mention it. It's not the first disappointment I've had in my
life. It probably won't be the last. Moreover, now that you _know_,
undoubtedly you'll think better of your decision to give him up. You'll
marry him, after all, in spite of the loss of me and my money. So I'll
have my _eminent_ grandson, whether I want him or not."
"_Grandmother!_"
"Well, won't I? It seems to me, you have quite a keen eye for the main
chance. At least, that's how I've made it out, judging from your
behavior. At first, you were all for marrying him, when you thought you
could do it on the sly, without sacrificing your interests with me.
Then, on the impulse of the moment, for Norris's benefit, maybe, you
played tragedy-queen and forswore your fortune for the sake of the man
you love. All of which would have been very pretty and romantic--if you
had stuck to it. But, when you had had time to calculate--presto! it's
your lover you repudiate, to hang on to the money. Now you're fairly
certain he's got all you'll need--doctors fleece one abominably,
nowadays! Come and feel your pulse, and give you a soothing-syrup, and
send in a bill for ten dollars, and _that's_ no placebo, I tell you!
Oh, there's no doubt you'll be rich, if you marry a _doctor_---- Where
was I?"
"You were running down doctors, grandmother, and I don't see how you
can, when you know what those you've had have done for you. I----"
"There, there! I don't need _you_ to inform me, young miss. What I was
saying is, nobody would doubt, for a minute, you'll take him now. _I_
don't."
"Grandmother," the girl began, with the same kind of exaggerated
punctilio Martha had observed in Mr. Ronald. "Grandmother, I want to be
very respectful to you. I don't want to say one word that will excite
you, or make you ill. But I think you take unfair advantage of me. You
taunt me, and jeer at me because you know I can't hit back, without
being an unutterable coward."
Madam Crewe made a clicking sound with her tongue.
"On the whole, I think I'd like it better if you _did_ hit back,
providing you hit back in the right way. No temper, you understand. No
rage, no rumpus and that sort of vulgarity. But real dexterous
thrusting and parrying. Now, for example, you missed an opportunity a
few moments ago. When I said I'd have liked to have a grandchild I could
be proud of, you might have retorted, 'I'm sorry I disappoint you,
grandmother, but, perhaps, if _you_ had been Dr. Ballard's grandmother,
his distinction might not have been so great.' That would have been a
silencer, because,--it would have been true. I'm afraid you're not very
clever, my dear."
"If that sort of thing--slashing people with one's tongue, is clever,
I'm glad I'm stupid."
"There! That's not so bad! Try again!" applauded the old woman.
Katherine turned away, with a gesture of discouragement.
"It never occurred to me before," Madam Crewe meditated, "but what you
really need is a sense of humor. You're quite without humor. You've
brains enough, but you have about as much dash and sparkle as one of
your husband-that-is-to-be's mustard-plasters. Only the mustard-plaster
has the advantage of you in sharpness."
The girl wheeled about abruptly. "He is not my husband that-is-to-be.
I have told you that before."
"But the circumstances have changed. Now you know he is
distinguished--probably well-to-do----"
"It only makes another barrier. Can't you see? Can't you understand?"
"Perhaps I might, if you'd have the goodness to explain. But you must
remember, I'm an old woman. It's a great many years since I had
heroics."
"Perhaps you never had them," Katherine retorted. "Perhaps you never
were _young_--never cared for any one with all your heart. Perhaps you
never had a heart."
"Perhaps," agreed Madam Crewe. "In which case, don't appeal to it.
Appeal to my imagination. That, at least, I can vouch for."
"I took your word for it, that Dr. Ballard was a young struggling
doctor, poor--with, at best, no more than a problematic future--that's
what you said--a problematic future."
"Well?"
"When I began to suspect he cared for me, I was glad he hadn't a lot of
advantages, to emphasize my want of them. It didn't seem to me, then,
so impossible, that as poor as I should be, and as dull as you've always
said I am, I might marry him some day, if he loved me. I never cared a
rush about that nonsense connected with his grandfather. I wouldn't
have cared, if it had been true. So when you threw mud at _my_
grandfather and father, I didn't suppose _he'd_ care--or believe
it--either. And, he didn't and--doesn't. So far, we stood about equal.
I could give him as true a love as he could give me. But----"
"Oho! So that's your idea. I see your point now. You've got the kind
of love that weighs and balances, have you? You won't take more than
you can give! Why, young miss, let me tell you, you may think that's
high-flown and noble--it's no such thing! If you want to know what it
is, it's your great-grandfather's arrogance turned inside out, that's
all! If you refuse to marry the man you love, because you have nothing
to offer him, you're as bad as I was when I refused because my lover had
nothing to offer me. There's a pride of poverty that's as detestable as
the pride of riches. You talk about love! You don't know what the word
means. If you did, you'd see that the real thing is beyond such mean
dickering. In love _fair exchange is low snobbery_."
The girl stared silently into her grandmother's face. Two bright spots
were glowing in the withered cheeks, the old woman's eyes shot forth the
fire of youth.
For the second time Katherine felt that the drawbridge was down.
Impulsively, she took a step forward, grasping one of the little old
hands, folding it tight in both her own.
"Grandmother, I want to tell you something--I see what you mean and--I
know it's true. But--but--there's something else----"
Madam Crewe did not withdraw her hand. It almost seemed to Katherine as
if its clasp tightened on hers.
"What else?"
"When he--when Dr. Ballard first spoke to me about his grandfather, he
said, 'But after all, the only thing that really counts is character.'
He said: 'One can afford to whistle at family-trees if one's own record
is clean!' He said: 'After all, what's most important, is to be
straight goods one's self. If I'd lied, or was a coward or had taken
what belonged to some one else, or had any other dirty rag of memory
trailing after me, I'd hesitate to ask any one to share my life with me,
but----'"
"Well?"
"Grandmother--_I've_ the kind of dirty rag of memory, he spoke about.
I'm a coward--I've lied--I've taken what belonged to some one else."
*CHAPTER XIII*
Madam Crewe said nothing.
She gazed into Katherine's face blankly for a moment, then gradually
withdrew her eyes to fix them on a bit of sky visible through the bowed
shutters of the open window.
When the silence became unendurable, "Won't you speak to me,
grandmother?" the girl pleaded. "Won't you let me feel you understand?"
There was a long pause before any answer came.
"Understand? No, I don't understand. How could one understand one's
own flesh and blood being, doing--what you describe? That story would
be perpetually new--perpetually incomprehensible. But perhaps you're
vaporing. Using big words for insignificant things. A child's trick.
Tell me the truth, and be quick about it."
There was something so formidable in the tiny old woman sitting there,
coldly withdrawn into herself again, controlling any show of natural
emotion with a fairly uncanny skill, that Katherine quailed before her.
In as few words as possible, she sketched the story of the recovered
pocket.
Madam Crewe heard her through, in silence. In silence, received the
object that had, at one time, been such a determining factor in her
life. Katherine could not see that she betrayed, by so much as the
quiver of an eyelash, the natural interest one might be conceived as
feeling in so significant a link with the past.
"Be good enough to leave me," the old woman said at last. "And don't
open this subject again, unless I bid you. If I need any one I'll ring
for Eunice. Don't _you_ come--for the present. Oh, before you go, see
that you keep a close mouth about this thing, not alone to me, but to
_every one_. Understand?"
Katherine nodded dumbly. She felt like a child dismissed in disgrace,
or a prisoner returned to his cell. She did not know how long she
remained in her room, but when Eunice came to announce luncheon, she
sent her away, merely explaining that she was not hungry. And would
Eunice kindly answer if Madam Crewe should ring?
Within her, a hundred impulses of revolt urged to some act of
self-deliverance. She fought them down with appeals to her own better
nature, her grandmother's need of her. It was to escape from herself,
as much as from her environment, that, at last, in desperation, she
caught up her hat and left the house.
She had been gone several hours, and it was twilight, when a low tap
sounded on Madam Crewe's door.
Without waiting for permission to come in, Dr. Ballard did so. The old
woman started up, as if his presence roused her from sleep, but he could
see she had been fully awake.
"You look as if you had been through the wars," she observed dryly,
examining his face with her searching eyes.
He dropped heavily into the chair she indicated.
"I have," he answered.
"You've saved two souls alive? Mother and child?"
He nodded. "But the war's not over. The fight's still on. I've done
all _I_ can. The rest lies with----"
The old woman took him up sharply. "Don't try to talk. Touch that
bell."
Then, when Eunice, responding, stood on the threshold: "Bring me the
leathern case you'll find standing beside the clothes-press in my
dressing-room. Yes ... that's the one. Bring it here to me! Now, go
downstairs and fetch a plateful of hard biscuits. Hurry! ... Stop! ...
Before you go, hand me that glass from my table."
When the girl was gone, Madam Crewe unlocked the case before her, took
from it a flask, and with surprisingly steady hands, poured a share of
its contents into the glass Eunice had placed on the wide arm of her
chair.
"Wine?" asked Dr. Ballard doubtfully, hesitating to drink.
"No, not wine. Drink it down. Now, the biscuits. Don't talk."
She pretended to busy herself with the leathern case upon her
knees--replacing the flask, turning the key in the lock, rather
elaborately fingering the smooth surface, as if all her attention was
concentrated on some imaginary fleck or flaw she had just discovered.
When, watching covertly, she saw the haggard lines slowly fade from her
companion's face, the blood gradually mount to his cheeks, she drew an
audible breath.
"That's great stuff!" Daniel Ballard observed appreciatively. "What do
you call it?"
Madam Crewe raised her eyebrows. "I don't call it. It has no name, so
far as I know. It's an old stimulant my father picked up somewhere in
the far East. He treasured it like gold."
"It's certainly done the trick. I was all in, and now I feel quite fit.
Mrs. Slawson and I have been _on the job_ since morning. She's a
wonder, that woman! No end of nerve and pluck. I could make a corking
good nurse of her! She's back there now, watching. Firm as Gibraltar.
I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to get away for a moment, to
catch a breath of fresh air, and a glimpse of----"
"Me?" Madam Crewe caught him up.