In the morning he awoke to find the sunlight lying white upon his bed.
It did not suggest, as it often had suggested, an incandescent shroud in
a crematory retort. But of what, then, did it remind him? Why, snow, of
course. Snow on the mountains. Snow on the Himalayas, beneath the shadow
of which Jaffer had already read his wire. The difference of time was
such that it was Jaffer’s afternoon—say two o’clock. What was Jaffer
doing? Did the snow on the Himalayas chill him, or did it beckon him to
adventure? The latter, he hoped. After all, why grow old without a little
adventure?
He sprang out of bed like a boy, took his bath like a boy, plunged
into the study of his daily appointments like a boy. He found himself
whistling a tune—it was years since he had whistled. And on searching his
memory to see what the tune was, he discovered to his vast amusement that
it was called “Precious Jewels.”
At six o’clock he went out to breakfast, and there, instead of merely Wu
and Chat, he found all five students. There were roses on the table, and
a pile of parcels at his place.
“Many happy returns of the day, doctor!” It was Deland, thrusting a lean
hand forward for a deadly Y. M. C. A. shake.
“Great Scott, boys! Great—Scott! It is my birthday. I had as clean forgot
it as—well, as I forget all yours.”
“Thirty-two roses, doctor,” said Ameen, “and here is one to grow on.” He
came forward and pinned the flower in Trench’s buttonhole.
Nothing like this had happened before in the Trench household. Even then
Trench did not understand it, though deeply moved. He did not understand
that for the last six months he had been changing, hour by hour, from a
friend deeply respected to a friend dearly beloved.
Edith had said that she should sleep soundly that night, and she did. But
when she awoke, and began to recall the previous day, she suddenly fell
to reproaching herself. She had made Trench change his message to Dr.
Jaffer. She had called Mr. Sereef’s story a tissue of lies, though the
doctor believed it. She had failed to respect his judgment.
It is unsafe to draw up an indictment against a whole sex, but sometimes
women act as Edith proceeded to act. Instead of saying to herself that
the thing was done and there was an end on’t, she grew more and more
chagrined, and on her way back to the University stopped in Halsted
Street to apologise. It was half-past eight, and Trench was busy with
early callers, but she waited in the library. There she was surprised to
find an enormous shallow vase filled with lilies of the valley.
Presently Trench appeared, with a look on his face such as she had never
seen there before. But Helena Drummond had seen it; even Ischl had seen
it.
“Well, this is pleasant again. Something new?”
“No, doctor, unless apologies from women are new. I want to say how
ashamed I am to have been so insistent yesterday. It was atrocious for me
to speak so of Mr. Sereef to the man who knows him better than any one.”
Trench did not laugh. He took the scarred left hand, and gently lifted it
to his lips. “All the apologies, dear lady, must come from me. A lifetime
devoted to the task would hardly atone for the words I spoke to you last
August, when you showed me your plants. Now take a look at mine.”
“I have been looking at them. Some parent must have been very grateful,
to send you such a field of May.”
“It was not a G.P., whether grateful patient or grateful parent. It was
merely my beloved scamp, Saadi Sereef. I beg you to take some of them.”
He drew out a great handful, shook the drops from them, and held them
out, with a look as if he were pleading for his life. She hesitated, and
then pinned them at her breast. “I don’t wonder that you love the scamp.
Why did he leave orders for this particular flower?”
“Well, it happens to be my birthday.”
“And why lilies of the valley on your birthday?”
“Some absurd symbolism connected with his stay in the Balkans. The
interesting thing is that Saadi should respect any sort of symbol. He and
I have long been accustomed to keep just as far away as possible from
symbols, gods, poetry, and all the other vagaries of the human body.”
“I see. He is a radical mechanist like yourself.”
“A what?”
“A radical mechanist. Don’t you recognise your proper tag?”
“I do no reading, Miss Bridgman. And as Ameen says, I am afraid of names.”
“In that case I won’t give you one, and perhaps you will tell me why you
have been afraid of symbols.”
“Because they turn into charms.”
“Not nowadays.”
“Yes, nowadays. Three blocks from here the Jew opens his Psalms and
chooses a magic verse to guide him. This winter I saw an Italian girl
tearfully marry the wrong man because he had got possession of a piece
of her neckwear. And West Siders continue to call on the empty name of
God to do things that they ought to do themselves.”
“But you give in about lilies of the valley?”
Again that look of pleading. “I have given in about more than lilies.
Even cypripediums seem to mean a good deal to me.”
Edith averted her face. After all her struggles, was she tempting the
man? His restrained passion was evident in every look. She would be true
to her resolve. She rose to go.
“Saadi and I,” said Trench, rising, “have concluded that a good deal of
the old vocabulary will have to serve. You may live to hear me speak
respectfully of Christ’s hæmoglobin.”
“Well, doctor, I really think you’re coming on.”
“Thank you. I shan’t come far enough to speak respectfully of
immortality. Peacocks and butterflies symbolise it, but the birds eat up
the insects.”
“Yes, but peacocks also suggest pride, and pride keeps us straight.”
“Alas,” laughed Trench, “peacocks go to roost, and pride fails. You see
how trivial the whole business becomes.”
“Far from it!” she flashed. “The very mention of peacocks has given me
what I need at this moment. I thank God very particularly for a little
pride and courage.”
“I shall never thank God for anything, madam. But before we quarrel, I
admit your point. The essence of a charm is courage. I am inclined to
think that courage is even the essence of charm.”
He looked at her so directly that again she was afraid. “Are you by any
chance becoming so banal as to compliment me?”
“By no means, Cypripedium.”
She bit her lip, and moved a step toward the door.
“Saadi has charm,” said Trench, “and egad! the essence of it is courage.
Before you get to the door I shall probably admit that the blood of
Christ is curative. It is a lonesome and sin-sick world, and needs
salvation. I reckon that the world’s blood supply unconsciously invented
that sacrifice to cleanse itself and keep its courage up. You see, I am
recanting as fast as possible.”
Edith stopped. “You are almost human, Dr. Trench. I never guessed that
you could be so open-minded and—and—vivacious.”
He drove ahead rapidly. “Religion might be a good thing if folks would
make it up as they go along. The fellows that invented it had a use for
it. They extracted courage out of everything, even stones. Red pebbles
were blessed to them. Becker tells me that in Russia a ruby will even now
warm congealed blood, and Chat says that in India it heals the scars of
fire.”
She laughed—hesitated—and decided to risk it. “I don’t know which one of
us needs a ruby the most.”
Instantly she regretted the words, and innocently tried to retrieve them
by adding others. She only made the matter worse, for what she said was
this: “I feel sure that you are really coming my way. But you are not
ripe for the twenty-eighth of June.”
Trench thrilled to that—the more that she meant nothing personal. He
gripped his mind and made it think of the technical problem of vitalism
versus mechanism. Then he looked down at her gravely.
“I shall try very hard to be ripe for the twenty-eighth.”
She held out her hand. “Thank you for forgiving me. And may you have
many, many happy returns of the day.”