Part 4

In Herman Medfield's room, the night-light was carefully shaded. Through the dimness one guessed rather than saw the figure lying straight on the high bed, motionless under the blanket, and the night nurse standing beside it. The nurse bent a little toward the figure and listened. Through the half-opened window a breeze came in, swaying the curtains, and the night-light cast reaching, moving shadows across the ceiling and along the bed.

The figure on the bed stirred a little and moaned, and the nurse spoke softly. There was no response--only an inarticulate sigh, and quickened breath for a moment, and rigid silence again. The nurse touched the clothes gently, straightening them, and returned to her chair by the table. The light fell on her face, the fresh face with clear features and half-reddish hair gathered up under its white cap. She sat bending forward, her hands relaxed in her lap. The breeze from the window came in and mixed with the shadows and crept through the room toward the bed.

A thoroughly successful operation, Dr. Carmon had said. But he had been in twice since to look at the motionless figure, and the nurse sitting by the table had careful instructions to call him at any moment.... The operation had been a success, but who knew what subtle forces had been attacked, perhaps overthrown, in those sharp, fierce minutes in the operating-room while the knife was at work? Dr. Carmon knew that he could cut clean and quick and sure; he knew that he could follow a nerve almost as a dog follows a scent, without fear or flinching; but it was something within the nerves, the unseen, unguessed something--that was life itself--that might undo his work and leave him helpless.... He could only look at the silent figure and repeat again his careful instructions and go away and leave it to the power that no man understands, and no man can help or hinder.

The curtains moved in the breeze; and the nurse rose now and then as the night wore on and went to the bed and waited a minute and returned to her chair. Then some movement in the room--something unseen, drew her and she went again to the bed. She moved the light so that it fell, half-shaded, on the pillow, and bent forward and looked. Her hand sought the wrist under the blanket and held it a minute and she lifted her face and turned the light quickly away.

She was moving toward the door--but it had swung softly back into the shadowy room, and Aunt Jane was nodding to her and smiling--with a subdued half-gesture toward the bed.

"I'll take him now," she said in her low voice.

"Shall I call Dr. Carmon?"

"Not yet." She went on toward the bed and the nurse passed out.

In the dimness of the room, nothing had happened. The curtains swayed a little in the breeze--the motionless figure on the bed lay rigid as before under its blanket--and the shadows crept toward it and back. But in the turning of a minute, forces had ranged themselves in the quiet room.

Aunt Jane turned off the light and pushed back the curtains from the window and brought a chair to the side of the bed, and sat down quietly with the forces. She had moved with the certainty of one who sees what is to be done. She knew that presently there would steal out from the shadows something that has neither name nor shape.

She slipped her hand along inside the blanket and found the lifeless one and rubbed it a little and touched the wrist with firm, quick fingers and clasped the hand close.

Then she sat with her head bent, as motionless as the figure beside her. The moments came and went. Outside, the clock-tower boomed the hour softly, and then the half-hour; and somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed--a shrill, clear call, like light.... Something ran through the figure on the bed--the man stirred a little. Half-way through the lifeless fingers something crept toward warmth, and lay chill--and went slowly back and came again--and Aunt Jane's hand closed on it, clean and soft.... The man stirred and opened his eyes and stared vaguely out.

The shadows in the room were clear gray--the east light had touched them. The eyes looked out on the light, unseeing, and fell shut. A half sigh fluttered to the parched lips and escaped and the man turned his head. Aunt Jane bent forward, waiting. The eyes opened and saw her and closed, and an even breath came through the lips. Then a deep groan broke from them and Aunt Jane smiled.... It was a quiet, brooding smile like the light of the morning that was flooding in through the room.... The man groaned again.

Aunt Jane nodded happily and got up. She opened the windows wide and let in the freshness and stood for a moment breathing it in. Then she went back to the bed.

The man's eyes regarded her dully.

"You feeling all right now?" she said cheerfully, bending over him.

He turned his head with a groan and Aunt Jane touched the bell.

It was the nurse with the reddish hair who responded, fresh from her nap.

"How is he?" she asked. She looked toward the drawn face on the pillow.

"He's all right," said Aunt Jane. "He's just begun to suffer. He'll get along all right now."

"You don't think we need to send for Dr. Carmon?" she asked doubtingly.

"No, we don't need Dr. Carmon," replied Aunt Jane. "He did _his_ work yesterday. It's our turn now-- It's Mr. Medfield's turn." She nodded toward the bed and smiled and went out.

XV

Through the open door of Room 5, Aunt Jane heard voices and stopped to listen. Then she went in.

"This is my husband," said the little woman on the bed. "He says they're getting along real well."

The man by the bed rose awkwardly, turning his stiff hat in his hands. He wore a high collar with sharp points turning back in front and a bright-blue necktie. A large stick pin was thrust through the tie, and his hair was combed carefully in a wide, flat curl on his forehead. He stood with his feet close together, and bowed to Aunt Jane over the hat.

She held out her hand. "How do you do, Mr. Pelton?-- Your wife is getting along first-rate!" She nodded toward the bed.

The little woman's face flushed with clear color. "The doctor says I can go in ten days!" she announced.

Aunt Jane considered it. "Well, you can go as soon as you can go--it may be ten days and it may be eleven. I wouldn't begin to say just how many days 'tis--if I was you. We mean to make you comfortable as long as you stay here." She looked at her benignly over her glasses. "You're comfortable, aren't you?"

"Oh, I'm comfortable!" said the woman. "Everybody's real good to me, John." She turned to him. "Tommie don't miss me, does he?" It was wistful.

John tugged at something in his pocket. "He kind of misses you, I guess. But we're getting along _fine_!... I got these for you--so's you could see." He put a fat envelope in her fingers and she received it doubtingly. She held it up and looked at it.

"I don't know where they put my spectacles--I can't see very well."

"You don't need to see--not for them. Here--I'll show you." He took the envelope proudly and stiffly and drew out a card and held it toward her. "There you be!"

She took it in questioning fingers.

"Why, it's Mamie!"

She turned her face to Aunt Jane and held up the card to her: "That's my oldest girl--that's Mamie!" Her voice had a happy tone--with quick tears somewhere in it.

The man smiled broadly. "I've got another one!" He took it from the envelope and extended it. "And here's two more!" He held the group of pictures spread before him like a fan in his big hand and gazed at them.

"Why, John Pelton! You don't mean you had 'em all done!"

"The whole family," he said proudly.

"John--_Pelton_! Here--let _me_ see!"

She took the pictures from him, one by one, and her fingers trembled with them. "That's Tommie! He's got on the little sack Aunt Minnie made for him!

"He looks nice--don't he?" She held it toward Aunt Jane.

"And that's Wesley. His tie don't set quite straight." Regret and pride mingled over the tie and smiled at it fondly. "And that's Lulie! It's the whole family!"

"Well, I _am pleased_!"

She lay back and looked at them, proud and content, and Aunt Jane praised the children.

"I've got another one here," said the man. He looked half shamefaced as he drew it out.

Aunt Jane took it and smiled, and glanced from the picture to his face.

"Yes, it's good-- Looks like you," she said.

The woman raised a curious hand to it----

"Why--John!"

He stood smiling almost bashfully.

"I thought you'd better have the whole family while you were about it," he said.

She gathered her family into eager hands. "I'd rather have them than anything in the world!" she said softly.

"They didn't cost much," he volunteered. "Twenty cents apiece--the kind you send on post-cards, you know."

"I don't care what they cost!" said the little woman. "It's worth it!... The doctor says I'm going to be real well, John, when I get up."

She was looking at the baby, in his knitted sack. "But there won't be any more babies," she said half wistfully.

John blew his nose violently and looked out of the window.

"I'd better be going," he announced.

"Yes--time for you to go," said Aunt Jane. She moved with him toward the door.

In the corridor he turned to her. "Tickled most to death, wa'n't she?--I was kind o' 'fraid she'd think it was foolish."

"If more men were foolish, the world would get along a good deal better," said Aunt Jane cryptically.

She beamed on him. "You better not come again for four-five days now, Mr. Pelton. She'd ought to keep quiet and not think about what the children are doing and what's going on.

"She can think about her pictures for a while," she added kindly as his face fell. "There's times when picture children help more than real ones--more handy for sick folks sometimes."

"I guess that's so," said the man. "I don't know as I ever saw her look so pleased--not since before we were married," he added thoughtfully.

Aunt Jane watched him march happily down the corridor. Then she turned back to the room.

The woman had spread the children in a little row along the ridge of the blanket, and was looking at them with happy eyes. She turned her gaze to Aunt Jane as she came in.

"Wa'n't that just like a man!" she said deprecatingly.

"Just like a man," assented Aunt Jane. "One of them senseless things that comes out all right!"

She sat down comfortably by the bed. "Sometimes I think men don't know any more'n big grampuses--they just go blundering along!" She looked benevolently at the row of faces on the blanket.

XVI

Half-way down the corridor Aunt Jane encountered Miss Canfield.

The nurse stopped her with a word. "Mr. Medfield keeps asking for you." She raised her chin a little as she spoke.

Aunt Jane regarded it mildly.

"Anything the matter with him?" she asked.

Miss Canfield hesitated. "He's irritable," she said safely.

Aunt Jane nodded. "That's good for him---- That won't hurt any! He's got his Suite and he's got the best 'special' in the house on his case."

Miss Canfield's face softened subtly.

"You tell him I'm busy," said Aunt Jane. "Tell him I'll come by and by, when I get around to it---- There's Miss Manners with a baby! I was just looking for a baby!" She hurried off.

Miss Canfield watched, with amused face, while Aunt Jane gathered the baby into her ample arms and disappeared in Room 15. Then she turned back to report to Herman Medfield in Suite A that Aunt Jane would come when she was not so busy.

Aunt Jane gazed shrewdly over the little bundle of blankets in her arms at Edith Dalton, sitting propped against her pillows and scowling a little discontentedly.

Aunt Jane sat down and undid the blanket. "They're such cute little things," she said. "It don't seem as if there'd ever be enough of _him_ to make a man of, does it!" She held up the coming man in his long white gown.

Edith Dalton glanced indifferently--and glanced away.

The baby, out of his blue eyes, gazed at something unseen.

"I always do wonder what they're looking at and what they're thinking about!" said Aunt Jane. She had gathered the baby comfortably up against the curve of her breast and was rocking gently back and forth.

"I don't suppose they think about anything," said Edith Dalton with a look of unconcern.

"I used to think maybe that was so," said Aunt Jane. "But since I've had so many of 'em----"

"How many have you had?" asked the other quickly.

"Of my own--you mean?" Aunt Jane paused. "I never had but one of my own," she said regretfully. "But here--I've had three hundred and sixty-nine."

Edith Dalton smiled a faint smile.

Aunt Jane watched it and rocked.

"It's different when you've a good many," she said placidly. "You begin to see what they mean--just plain baby! Not because it's _your_ baby, you know--but what they're like and what they mean."

"They don't mean much of anything, do they--except to cry?" The indifferent look held itself, but something had stirred in it.

"Yes, they cry!" Aunt Jane was silent.... "They cry, good and hard sometimes.... And that means something, too. Folks don't let 'em cry half enough, _I_ think! I don't know what it means--their crying so," she admitted. "But it sounds as if it meant something--something more than just tummy-ache.... And their smiling's like that, too. It isn't just smiling at something you do to them, or something you say. It's more as if they were smiling at something inside--kind of as if the whole world was a joke to 'em, and being alive was a kind of beautiful joke--if we could see how 'tis." She was looking down at the bundle in her arms and smiling to it.

Edith Dalton eyed it curiously.

Aunt Jane shook her head reproachfully at the baby, still smiling a little. She looked significantly at Edith Dalton. "He's trying to get his thumb in," she said. "They won't let him do that in there." She nodded toward the other wing.

"He kind of knows, I reckon. He knows his Aunt Jane will let him do it--if he can." She watched him happily.

"There! he's done it!"

The woman glanced at the baby indifferently and then at Aunt Jane's face, and the softness crept out a little.

"You think a great deal of babies and children, don't you?" She said it almost jealously.

"Yes, I love 'em," said Aunt Jane. She rocked happily. "You didn't ever have any children, did you?"

"No."

Aunt Jane's face made no comment. She rocked a minute. "I reckon women always wants children.... Every woman wants 'em--even when she doesn't know.... She wants 'em--way in back somewhere; she kind o' misses 'em."

She rocked again--slowly.

"I only had that one baby myself--and he died. But I've always been thankful I had him--even if he died.... That was a good many years ago. But even now, every once in a while, I'll dream I'm holding him in my arms; and then I'll wake up--and I'm not holding anything.... When I wake up like that, when I've been dreaming, I generally throw on my wrapper and run down to the Mother's Ward and wander around a spell, tucking 'em in and seeing that everybody's comfortable. Then I can generally go back and go to sleep all right."

Her face was beautiful and gentle as she talked, and Edith Dalton watched it wistfully. She had relaxed a little, and rested back against the pillow.

"You don't want children unless you have a home for them," she said half rebelliously.

"That's so. Children do need a home! I guess that's what homes are for--little children playing round in 'em."

The two women were silent and the room grew darker. Aunt Jane watched the face on her arm.

"He's going to sleep," she said. "I'll have to take him back to his mammy."

She got up quietly and moved toward the door, jogging her arms as she went. At the door she paused and looked back, over the sleeping child, to the woman on the pillows and smiled to her--as if they knew something together.

Then she went out. And Edith Dalton lay staring at the wall. Slowly her eyes filled with tears that sobbed and ran down her face. She covered them with her hands and sobbed again and nestled to the pillows and cried happily--as if her heart were breaking in her.

XVII

"Mr. Medfield is asking for you again," said Miss Canfield.

Aunt Jane, coming out of the Children's Ward, stopped and looked at the nurse and smiled. "I suppose he's fussing and tewing a good deal?" she asked.

"He is," admitted Miss Canfield.

"Well, I'll be in by and by. You can tell him I'm coming."

She went leisurely on. When she had made the rounds of the top floor and had descended to the office and entered a few items in her day-book and given directions for linen and had a conference with the cook, she turned toward Suite A.

She knocked on the outer door, and bent her head a little to listen--and as she listened she had a sudden sense of the room on the other side of the door--she saw it lying in the darkness, and she heard the rooster's clear, shrill call through the window, and saw the straight form on the bed. It all came before her and vanished as she put her hand on the door and knocked.

"Come in!" The voice was sharp and a little imperious.

Aunt Jane opened the door.

A burst of light and color greeted her. The shades were rolled to the tops of the windows. And there were flowers everywhere.... Roses on the table, a great bunch of carnations on the desk, violets on the stand at the head of Herman Medfield's bed, foxgloves and snapdragons filling the window-sill and spilling over into the room. It was a riot of color; and in the midst of it, propped on his pillows on the high white bed, the millionaire looked out with a scowl.

He wore an embroidered Chinese shoulder coat of blue and gold; and his hair, carefully combed, stood up a little on his forehead. The Vandyke beard was clipped to a point.

"You look pretty as a picture," said Aunt Jane cheerfully.

The scowl deepened a little--then it broke. "Will you sit down?" said Medfield politely.

Aunt Jane drew up a chair.

He watched her descend into it and his brow cleared. "I have been wanting to see you."

Aunt Jane nodded. "I've been meaning to come. There's a good many things to do in a hospital." The chair adjusted itself--"Was it anything in particular you wanted to ask me about?"

The millionaire's eyes had been resting on the quiet face. They turned away, a little startled. "Why--um--yes! I was thinking--I was thinking--" His eyes fell on the roses and he swept a hand toward them. "These flowers--all of them!" he said.

Aunt Jane turned a little in her chair and beamed. "They look nice, don't they?"

"They're well enough," said Medfield grudgingly. Then--with petulance: "I'm tired of them. I want them taken away--all of them!"

"Sick folks get notions," said Aunt Jane placidly. "Where shall I take 'em to?"

"Why, take them--" He looked about impatiently. "Take them where you usually take flowers!"

"We generally take them to the folks they're sent to." She leaned forward to the violets and touched them with cool, gentle fingers, looking at them kindly.

"There's something about violets makes me think of home places," she said.

"Would you like them?" said Herman Medfield. He was watching the cool, firm fingers with a quiet look--almost a pleasant look.

"Me?--Mercy, no!" The fingers withdrew to her lap. "You couldn't _send_ 'em to me. I'm here."

"Yes, you are here--that's so!" He almost smiled at her. His eyes returned to the fingers resting in her lap. "I have not had a chance to thank you--for your great kindness the other night."

"You are welcome," said Aunt Jane.

"It wasn't any great kindness," she added after a minute, "I always do for folks that need me."

"I suppose you know--" He stopped a moment, as if he could not quite speak of the thing that was in his mind. "I think you _made_ me--come back," he said slowly.

"It makes a difference whether somebody cares," admitted Aunt Jane.

"Did you care?" The sharp, pointed face was turned to her. "Did you care--!"

"Yes, I cared," said Aunt Jane.

"But--" He looked at her, bewildered, and was silent--looking before him.

Aunt Jane regarded him and smiled. "There didn't seem to be anybody _but_ me--to care," she said cheerfully.

"No--there wasn't."

"But I see now that there's a good many of them--" She motioned to the flowers. "I don't know as I ever see anybody have more flowers the first week."

"Flowers don't care--the people those came from don't care!"

The tone was scornful, almost bitter.

"Don't they!" She beamed on the flowers. "Somehow I can't ever believe flowers don't mean what they look," she said thoughtfully.

"These don't!" His little cynical smile rested on them. "Those roses there--They must have cost ten dollars at least----"

"I never saw bigger ones," assented Aunt Jane.

"My partner's widow sent them.... She sent them for business."

"_Did_ she!" Aunt Jane looked at the roses with interest.

"Mere business!" said Medfield. "And the carnations on the desk there--are from the men in the office----"

"There's always something fresh about carnations." She got up leisurely and went over to them and lifted the vase and brought it to him.

"Just smell of those!" She held them out. "Aren't they just about the freshest things you ever smelled!"

He sniffed at them reluctantly and motioned them aside.

"And those foxgloves there----"

He was talking out all the bitterness that had been in him as he had lain and watched the great boxes opened and the flowers ranged about him--"exactly as if I were a funeral!" he finished up at last.

Aunt Jane smiled to him. "What would you like me to do with them for you?" she asked tranquilly.

"Do whatever you like. _I_ don't care!" His indifference had returned and he looked tired.

She leaned forward a little. "I'm going to take out that head-rest," she said, "so's you can lie down."

She removed the frame from behind the pillows and shook them a little and let them gently back. "There--now you can lie down and have a good rest; and pretty quick now you're going to have some broth and then you'll go to sleep.... It don't do any good to get stirred up over folks' flowers," she said quietly.

"No." There was a little smile on his lips. He looked up at her, almost like a boy, from his pillow. "But it did me good to tell you!"

"I reckoned it would," said Aunt Jane. "Now I'll go get your broth for you."

She disappeared from the room and Herman Medfield's eyes closed--and opened again to find her standing beside him, the cup of broth in her hand.

She gave it to him through the crooked tube and watched the liquid lower in the cup with benignant eye.

"Just a little mite more," she said as he turned away his head--"Just a mite. There! You've done first-rate!"

She set the cup on the stand.

"Now I'm going to take all these flowers--" she gathered the carnations in her hands as she spoke: "I was thinking about it whilst I was heating your broth for you--I'm going to take them up to the Children's Ward. They'll be happy enough--when they see 'em!" She held the flowers at arm's length and looked at them with pleased eyes. He watched her with a faint smile and a look almost of interest.

"And I'm going to tell them that Mr. Medfield sent them----"

He raised a quick hand. "No----!"

She turned in surprise. "Don't you want me to tell them?"

"No."

He waited a minute.

"You can say a man sent them."

"Yes, I can say that--" Aunt Jane's face cleared. "I see how 'tis-- You don't want them to know about you--who you are."

"No." He was looking almost embarrassed.

She considered it a minute. "What is your first name?" she asked.

He cleared his throat like a boy. "Herman," he said meekly. "Herman G. Medfield."

Aunt Jane smiled. "I remember about it now--'Herman,'" she said it softly, as if it pleased her. "Herman-- That'll do! We don't need the G.--just Herman.... I'll tell them Mr. Herman sent them." She smiled at him cheerfully.

"Very well."

Aunt Jane went over to the window and gathered up the foxgloves--as many as her hands could hold--and turned to the door.

"I'll come back for the rest."