Trench was pretty tired that morning, and handed certain cases over to
his oldest student, Becker, and lay down in his office to rest. He could
not sleep, however, for he kept remembering Drummond’s words. Drummond
had of course spoken in emotional haste, and would make no further
reference to a children’s pavilion. But how tremendously Lister Hospital
needed such a thing—a genuine place for bedside teaching for the boys of
Lister College. It was no exaggeration to say that the average doctor
graduated without sense enough to strip a child before examination,
and without knowing how to hold it. Trench’s own will was made out in
favour of Lister, but it directed all his fortune to be applied toward a
research laboratory. He had no heart to begin the enterprise himself, or
any enterprise. What the devil was the use of supplying the Ischls with
grist?
At the same time, he had the habit. And if the Drummond child got well,
and Drummond relapsed into the customary indifference, why, Drummond
should in due time be reminded. He, Isham Trench, who had not asked a
favour of any human being in six years, would go to the man. He would go
at Easter time, when Drummond would be glad that one son was in heavenly
bliss and more glad that the other wasn’t. He would go, and Drummond
would turn him down to the tune of the Hallelujah Chorus.
Speaking of Ischl’s, he had promised to go to that hell of a shop and
criticise it. He might as well give up this napping business and go. This
he proceeded to do. As he expected, he found Ischl in a sullen rather
than a chastened mood. Trench pointed out numerous deficiencies—the
inspectors had done it before—and ended by telling him that his
wage-scale was a disgrace to a white man. All of which was useless,
competition being competition, and Ischl’s scale being higher than that
of many shops in Rochester and New York.
That afternoon he got a nap, and that evening he returned to the Drummond
house.
The night proved better than he had any right to expect. By four in the
morning he was reasonably certain that the heart would stand the strain.
Nor did he see any reason to change his mind when at six he studied the
pulse and the face. He washed up and went down.
Again Edith had breakfast ready for him.
“A very good night,” said Trench. “Errors and omissions excepted, Bobbie
is going to get well.”
“I have been praying for you all night. Your news is just like heaven.”
Her hand trembled a little as she poured out his coffee for him. She sat
down opposite, but would touch no food until she had seen him begin to
eat.
“Somehow,” she said, in a low tone, “I am haunted by the feeling that
this dreadful disease may be unreal—a bad dream that we have conjured up
in our fear.”
“You are tired, my dear lady. May I ask where that plant came from?”
He pointed to the centre of the table, where a single superb stalk of
leaves, freshly cut, rose from a vase.
“It came from Encampment. I brought home twelve, and gave Mrs. Potter a
white dress for them. Do you remember them?”
“I remember perfectly. You said that they declared the glory of God in
the wilderness.”
“And you”—Edith laid down her bit of toast and leaned forward—“said that
they were exquisite mechanisms. Did you see my name in the commencement
list this June?”
“I regret to say that I did not.”
“I took honours in botany.”
“Glorious! Let me offer tardy congratulations.”
“You’d better, because it was your doing.”
“My doing!”
“Yes, sir. I determined to know something about the exquisite mechanisms.”
“I trust that they still seem exquisite.”
“They do. Every fact I learned seemed like a loving response from God.”
Then they ate in silence, and to Trench it was like being married. To
glance across and see her sipping her coffee, to receive a second cup
himself and note the horizontal movement of her deft hands—as of advance
and retreat—it was all new to him.
She finished first and sat regarding him thoughtfully. “Helena telephoned
me that Bobbie insisted on kissing you last night. It was very wrong for
you to let him do it. You may pay with your life, as Phillips Brooks did.”
Trench rose, and was surprised at a sudden tremor of his whole tired
body. “I am immune,” he said. “My blood has developed its own antitoxin.”
“If you were twenty years older,” she cried, “I would kiss you myself for
saving our boy.”
It was nothing much to say, but Trench caught her hand and raised it
almost to his lips before his nerves stopped the lever of his elbow. He
caught himself in time, and seemed merely to scrutinise the scar. “I wish
we could do something for this place on the finger. Some day your wedding
ring will partly cover it. Tell him to get a broad one.”