Part 7

"No--not business--just good sense, I guess--and decency."

"I call it crooked dealing!" said the millionaire. Something of the old, gripping look came into the shapely hands lying on the bed.

Aunt Jane surveyed him and rocked on. "How much do you reckon your life is worth, Mr. Medfield?" she said after a little pause.

"I'm insured for--" He stopped.

She nodded. "That wasn't what I meant--but it will do. Whatever you're insured for--you're worth it, I guess." She paused and regarded him doubtfully.... "You're probably worth as much as you are insured for--" Her look considered it, and let it go.... "Whatever it is, we've saved it for you--among us. We've given you the best care we knew how.... You've had good care, haven't you?" She bent a solicitous look on him.

"The best of care," he said courteously. Then, after a minute: "Money could not pay for it--the kind of care you have given.... I have not forgotten the night--when I went down into the dark--and you held me." He was looking at something deep and quiet--then his gaze turned to her.

Aunt Jane returned it a minute--and looked away.... There was something in the face of the millionaire that she had not seen in it before. She got up and went to the window. "Looks as if it would be a good day to-morrow," she murmured.

She straightened the curtains a little and shook them out and came leisurely back. She glanced at the forget-me-nots.

"What I meant was," she said slowly, "some folks get big bills when they're here--and some folks get little ones, and some don't get any. It depends on what the Lord has given 'em; and we mean to take good care of 'em all."

He smiled. "Well--the Lord has given me plenty. I ought not to complain!"

"I didn't expect you would complain," said Aunt Jane. "I put it in the bill under Suite A--enough for two. And I told Dr. Carmon to make _his_ bill big enough for two--I guess he'll do it. He's a pretty sensible man." She rocked placidly.

Herman Medfield relaxed a little and looked at her whimsically. "It's a human way to do," he said thoughtfully. "And I do get _something_ for my money. This is a pleasant room."

"It's pleasant enough. But I've thought a good many times it's a pity you can't be in the ward."

"Me--in a ward!"

She nodded. "You're lonesome, aren't you?"

He looked at her with sudden thought. "You didn't know my boy has come!" he said.

Aunt Jane stopped. "Your boy?"

"My boy--Julian! I told you!"

"You said Julian was in Europe--" replied Aunt Jane.

"He came this morning!" The millionaire's voice laughed. "Walked right in through that door--without a word!" He nodded to it--as if still seeing the boy coming toward him.

Aunt Jane looked at the door and then at the man's face, and smiled.

"I told you Europe wasn't so very far off," she said. "But I didn't know it was _quite_ so near you as that!"

XXV

Herman Medfield, wrapped in a dark-blue quilted gown, was sitting in the sunny window that looked down into the back yards.... He remembered the day--only three weeks ago, was it--that he had watched the servant-girl hanging sheets on the line. He remembered how strong her arms were as she swung the sheets on the line.... He looked down into the yard. She was there now--singing just as she had then; the window was open and her voice came drifting in with the scent of the flowers that grew down by the fence.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was tired; more tired than he had thought he should be. Sitting in bed, he had felt strong--almost well. And he had demanded his clothes.

"We'll let you wear a dressing-gown the first day or two," Aunt Jane had said with a twinkle. "You've got a real pretty silk one, I see."

So she had brought out the quilted gown and laid it on the bed; and he had dressed slowly and come out here to the sunny sitting-room, where the big chair was drawn up in the window.

He had looked down into the yard, with a feeling of strangeness and newness, and had wondered a little whether it was the change in the foliage that made the yard look different, or whether the change was in Herman Medfield's eyes.

Then he had closed his eyes and leaned back.... Perhaps he had slept a little--with the fresh air coming in and the girl's voice singing and the sound of doves cooing from a roof near by--for when he opened his eyes again, Julian was sitting at the desk, writing.

He looked up and encountered his father's gaze and came over to the window.

"How are you feeling, Dad?"

"First-rate. It seems good to get on my legs again." He was looking eagerly at the boy, taking in his fresh young strength.... It had been several days since Julian came; but Herman Medfield was not yet used to his being there, or to the little proud feeling that came over him as he looked at this young man who was his son. He had never thought Julian was handsome. But something seemed to have happened to him.... He carried himself more like a man; and there was a look behind the lines of his face.... He thought of the boy's mother, as he watched it.... Europe had brought out the best that was in him. It had been a wise move--sending him off like that, to get him out of Mrs. Cawein's way.... And then it came to him that Julian was looking even better than the day he arrived.... Perhaps, after all, he was fond of his old dad! They had had many talks together--and had sat silent for long spaces of quiet; and the boy came and went as if his father's room were home to him. Every one in the hospital had come to know the quick step and light figure and the laugh that ran through the hall.... He went across the town to the vacant house to sleep. But his meals were served with his father's--when he could persuade Aunt Jane to send them in--and when he could not coax her to send in the extra tray, he went to a restaurant near by.

Aunt Jane and he had been friends from the minute he held out his hand to her, and she had taken it in hers and patted it and looked at him out of her muslin cap. "You're just the age of my boy," she had said, looking at him. "I always wonder what he'd be doing now--if I could see him."

And the young man had reached up an arm--before she could catch the meaning of his look--and thrown it around her neck and kissed her, just under the muslin border of her cap. "I guess that's what he would do first," he said. And Aunt Jane's eyes had filled with quick tears as she turned away.

"That's great foolishness!" she had said softly.

But the boy had won his place; and he was always asking for her when he came. She appeared now in the doorway with a card in her hand--looking at it doubtfully. Her glance ran to the figure in the window in its stately dressing-gown, and returned again to the little black-edged card.

The young man's eye fell on it and his eyebrows lifted a trifle. He came over.

"For me?" He held out his hand.

She ignored the hand and passed on to the millionaire, extending the card. Her face was impersonal and severe.

The boy's quick laugh broke across it.

"Caught, Dad!" he chuckled, looking at the card.

The millionaire glanced down and his face darkened.

"Tell her I cannot--" He stopped abruptly-- Suppose she had heard that the boy was home! His father's room was the best place for him--and for her to see him! He sighed and laid down the card.

"Very well. Tell her to come in."

The young man watched her go, and laughed out and then chuckled softly; his father smiled grimly.

The door opened and the widow entered. She was dark, with a white throat and white hands and bewildering bits of jet that twinkled as she moved. They tinkled softly as she came in.

Aunt Jane, following discreetly, closed the door behind her and went to a table across the room.

The widow stood looking at the two men with a charming smile.

Julian came forward. "How do you do, Mrs. Cawein?" he was holding out his hand and smiling.

"How-de-do, Julie!" She touched the hand lightly and fluttered by him toward the chair in the window-- "And how is the dear man!" she cried.

Julian, the little smile still on his lips, watched the comedy. Aunt Jane from across the room regarded it mildly.

The millionaire half rose as if warding off something----

But the dark lady only pressed his hand as it reached out; she lighted on a chair near by and twinkled a little and shone beamingly on him.

Herman Medfield sank back in his chair.

"It's so good to see you!" she exclaimed softly. "And do you know I might have missed you altogether!" She had clasped her hands and was looking at him reproachfully.

"There was a nurse person met me in the hall, and she said you were not here--that it was all a mistake in the name!" She spread her hands dramatically; the jets twinkled fast like little eyes all over her.... "She said you weren't here--that they'd got the wrong name!... Then _this_ good woman--" The little jewels on her hands glinted at Aunt Jane lightly. "This good woman met me--or I shouldn't have got in at all!"

Herman Medfield cast a glance of due appreciation at "this good woman." Her face was expressionless and cheerful; she was regarding the widow with uncritical eyes.

"It was very good in her, I am sure," murmured Herman Medfield.

"Wasn't it!... I've quite been dying to see you, you know!" She leaned toward him a little and sparkled for him.

"I think I must have been dying to see you," responded the millionaire politely. "Though they told me I was doing very well." He said it reflectively, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her.

The boy watched the play with amused eyes. He had no idea his father could be so courtly with women.

The visitor bridled to it and used her eyes. "It's a mercy you're better! Think of the interests you represent!"

"I try not to think of them," said Medfield dryly.

"Of course!-- You must not!" She quite cried out about it.

Then she turned to Julian. "And where have you been--naughty boy?"

The young man blushed and stammered. She had not held him at finger ends the last time he saw her.

"I've been--been _everywhere_!" he said with a laugh.

Aunt Jane had slipped quietly into the next room and through the doorway her ample figure could be seen shaking up pillows and moving softly about. The widow's eyes followed the figure reflectively and watched it disappear through a door that led into the corridor.

"Julian--dear----"

The boy jumped a little.

She was speaking over her shoulder to him and she leaned back smilingly. "Would you mind, Julian, getting my bag for me? I left it in the car-- So stupid of me!"

"With pleasure." The young man went toward the door. He glanced casually as he passed her at the chair she sat so airily upon.

There was a little smile on his lips as he closed the door.

XXVI

The widow's eyes followed him. "He is a dear boy," she said, with a motherly glance at the softly closing door.

Then her look changed and she leaned forward and touched the bowl of forget-me-nots with lightest finger-tip.

"Mine?" she said archly.

"If you would like them," said the millionaire graciously.

"Naughty man!" She shook the finger at him and then pointed it at the forget-me-nots.

"Who sent them to you?" Her chin tilted the question.

He regarded it gravely. "A woman sent them," he said.

She nodded and the little jets dingled at him.

"This woman?" She placed the finger on her chest and looked at him reproachfully.

The millionaire's look broke in startled confusion. He glanced swiftly at the flowers. "Why--yes--of course!... I ought to have thanked you.... But--I have not been well, you know." He smiled whimsically.

She motioned it aside. "I don't mind being thanked--so long as you got them!" Her eyes travelled about the room. "They are the only ones you have!" she said reflectively.

The millionaire's glance followed hers.

"There were--others," he said vaguely.

"But you have not kept them!" She leaned forward.

"No." He admitted it.

"These are the only ones--" she paused, looking at them pensively. "You don't know how happy you make me!" she said--and sighed it away.

"I am glad to have pleased you," responded the millionaire feebly.

"You don't know--" she touched the flowers as if they were something precious that must not be disturbed. "You--don't know how happy--you make me!"

The millionaire glanced uneasily about.

The door opened and Julian flashed in. "I say! I couldn't find your bag, you know!"

"Never mind!" She was sweet with it. "Perhaps I didn't bring it, after all."

"You don't think it is possibly--in your chair," he suggested, smiling a little.

He had come over and was standing quite close to her.

She glanced at him deprecatingly. "How clever in you, Julian!"

Her hand groped in the chair for the bag and found it--and she held it out, laughing at her mistake.

The two men smiled.

"So stupid--in me!" She took out a tiny handkerchief and shook it and the faintest scent of violets flew about the room.

The door opened. It was Miss Canfield, with a glass of water on a small round tray. She came across to the millionaire. "It is medicine time," she said quietly.

The millionaire drank it off and returned the glass to the tray and thanked her.

She looked down at him. "Is there anything else--you would like?" There was a clear, faint color in her cheeks, like a rose-leaf.

The widow's eye rested on it.

"Nothing, thank you," said Medfield.

"You have sat up a little longer than the doctor said-- You must not get too tired."

She left the room, carrying the little tray lightly before her, moving with noiseless step.

Three pairs of eyes watched her from the room.

"They take good care of you, don't they?" said Mrs. Cawein patronizingly. Her eyes were still reflectively on the door.

"The best of care!" responded Medfield.

"Well--" she sighed brightly and shook the handkerchief. "I think I was told to go?" She nodded archly. "Yes--she told me!-- I feel sure of it!"

She got up. "You must get well fast!" Her hand touched his lightly and whisked away, and the violet scent was wafted about him.

She moved toward the door, drawing Julian into her wake.

Herman Medfield's eyes watched them. His lips grew a little compressed. "You have forgotten your hat, Julian," he said sharply.

The boy glanced back over his shoulder and flashed a smile at him. "I'm seeing Mrs. Cawein to her car. I'll be back in a minute, sir----"

She murmured deprecation as they went. "You really--do not need to come with me, Julian."

"But I want to," said the young man. He shifted his feet quickly and caught step with her as she plumed along beside him.

"Your father's looking very well!" she said.

"Isn't he!" The reply was absent.

She glanced at him sharply. "You must come and see me--I have missed you!"

His eye went past her to the car that was waiting. "It is very kind in you," he murmured.

She tripped a little on the step and he caught her arm to save her.

She glowed to him. "Be sure to come," she said softly. "We must take up old times."

Julian looked at her and smiled ever so faintly.

He opened the door of the car and put her in and bowed ceremoniously and closed the door. She nodded brightly through the window.... The car rolled away.

He stood looking after it, smiling with a little amusement. Then he ran lightly up the steps.

The long corridor lighted by a great window stretched before him, and a figure at the end was outlined against it--a slender figure that carried itself very light and straight. She was walking from him, her face toward the window, and the white uniform and the cap glowed softly.... The reddish hair under the cap caught little glints of light. He watched till the figure disappeared in the distance. Then he turned to the door of Suite A.

The light of the reddish, shining hair was still in his face as he came in.

Medfield grunted and stirred a little in his chair. He glanced at the absorbed face.

"You find her attractive?" he said dryly.

The young man stared at him. He had forgotten Julia Cawein and her car; he had forgotten everything except the window of the long lighted hall and the girl's head lifted against it.

"I think she is charming!" he cried.

"Don't you?" he added after a little, uncomfortable pause.

"No," said his father shortly.

"What is the matter with her?" asked the boy. He was watching his father's face.

"Nothing is the matter if you don't happen to see it."

"I don't!"

The man was silent a minute. "Sherwood Cawein died of a broken heart," he said at last.

The boy stared. Then the look in his face broke and danced. "I was not thinking of Mrs. Cawein," he said quietly.

"You were not speaking of Julia Cawein?" His father sat up, his hands on the arms of his chair, and looked at him.

"No, I was not thinking of Mrs. Cawein. I'll tell you some day, Father, what I was thinking of. But--" he looked at him straight. "I'd like you to trust me a little if you will, please."

XXVII

"I'm not going to bed!" said Medfield irritably. "I don't want to lie down. I'm tired of lying down!" He looked out of the window and scowled.

The nurse was silent a minute, regarding him thoughtfully. Then she laid a light, cool hand on his wrist and her fingers found the pulse and held it.

"There's nothing the matter!" he said crossly.

"No, there doesn't seem to be." She released his wrist and went quietly out.

The millionaire's eyes followed her.... A shrewd flash came into them. The little annoyance had left his face; it had the keen, concentrated look that men who knew Herman Medfield did not care to see on his face--if they had business with him. It was the look that meant he was on the track of something or somebody.

He reached out to the bell.

Miss Canfield came. She waited with an inquiring look.

"I should like to see Mrs. Holbrook," said Medfield politely.

"Aunt Jane?" The nurse hesitated. "She's in the Children's Ward. Is it something that can wait--or something I can do for you, sir?" Her face was troubled.

He smiled at her reassuringly. "I want to see Aunt Jane-- She will come, I think--if you tell her." He settled back comfortably in his chair and waited.

He did not look up when Aunt Jane came in. His head rested against the chair and his face was drawn in the look of pathetic distress and helplessness that calls for pity.

Aunt Jane took in the look with kindly glance.

"You've been having too much company," she said.

"I do feel rather done up," admitted Medfield weakly.

"Well, you better go right to bed--" Aunt Jane moved toward the door of the adjoining room.

"I'm not going to bed," said Medfield.

Aunt Jane stood arrested----

"I want the doctor," added Medfield warily.

"I'll send for him--soon as you get in," she said placidly. "You come right along."

"No." He put his hands on the arms of the chair and looked at her like a spoiled child.

Aunt Jane regarded him calmly. She went into the corridor and sent word for Miss Canfield to come to her office. Then she went on to the office and took up the receiver and called Dr. Carmon's number; and stood waiting, with bent head, her cap strings reflective.

The head lifted itself--and her face focussed to the little black cup on the desk before her.

"It's about Mr. Medfield--Herman G. Medfield--yes." She said it severely into the blackness. "He won't do as he's told!"

Her ear listened. "Well, that's all right. But you'll have to come.... No, I don't know. He's cross--for one thing!... In half an hour, you say?... Well, that will do, I guess--I can handle him that long." She smiled and hung up the receiver and turned to Miss Canfield and looked at her through her glasses.

"What is the matter with him?" she asked.

The nurse shook her head. "He was all right until half an hour ago. I took him his medicine then," she replied.

"It's the widow!" said Aunt Jane.

Miss Canfield glanced at her inquiringly. "The one who was----?"

"Visiting him--yes. You saw her?"

Miss Canfield smiled. "Yes."

Aunt Jane nodded. "She's done it, somehow." Her face grew reflective. "I hadn't ought to have let her in," she said softly. "You had more sense than I did about that."

"I wondered a little why you did it," said Miss Canfield safely.

"Well--" Aunt Jane considered. "I thought maybe he needed stirring up a little--so he would get along faster. I didn't mean to stir him up quite so much," she added reflectively. "I didn't know he'd act like this.... He's always making a fuss!" she added disapprovingly.

Miss Canfield's face grew defensive. She turned it away. "I had thought he was a very good patient," she said quietly.

Aunt Jane's glance flashed at her. The muslin cap covered a question. "I don't know as he's any better than any other patient," she said, watching her critically.... "He ought to be good--with his Suite--and everybody running and waiting on him all the time!"

A bell tinkled and buzzed on the board in the hall.

Aunt Jane's cap turned toward it. "That's him now, I suppose, wanting something!"

The nurse went to the board and scanned it. She reached up and threw off the number and turned down the hall toward Suite A.

Aunt Jane's gaze followed her reflectively. Then she turned to her desk. When Dr. Carmon arrived she was sitting quietly at work on her books.

"What's up?" he said brusquely as he came in.

"I hope you'll find out," said Aunt Jane. Her tone was tranquil.

He shrugged his shoulders and removed his coat--throwing it carelessly across a chair. He took up his little black bag.

Aunt Jane regarded the coat disapprovingly. She went across and shook it out and laid it in neat folds.

"I think likely--it's a woman," she said, smoothing the coat.

He stopped abruptly and looked at her. "Anybody been here?"

"Yes--a widow."

The doctor grunted a little. "Who let her in?"

"Well--I don't _know_ that she upset him," said Aunt Jane. "Something did! You can find out, I guess." Her gaze was approvingly mild.

He relaxed a little.

"You want I should come with you?" she asked.

"No," hastily, "I'll send for you--if I need anything. Miss Canfield's around, I suppose."

"Yes, she's there, I guess. She's there most of the time," said Aunt Jane. Her face was non-committal.

But he glanced at it sharply. Then he went down to Suite A.

Herman Medfield, still sitting in his window, with the blue quilted gown wrapped about his legs, wore an unhappy expression.

Dr. Carmon scanned it. He set down the black bag and drew up a chair.

"What seems to be the matter?" he asked. He seated himself firmly in the chair and looked at his patient through keen glasses. All the little fine unconscious fibres that diagnosed a case for Dr. Carmon were alert and reaching out for signs; but the doctor himself looked as impassive as a stone jug, sitting in his chair, a hand on either knee--surveying Herman Medfield.

"What is the matter?" he said.

"I don't know." Medfield's tone was indifferent. "I feel worse--general distress--heaviness."

"Any pain?" The doctor's hand burrowing in his pocket had brought out the stethoscope.

He adjusted it to his ears and hitched his chair a little nearer. Medfield made an obliging movement forward.

"Stay where you are," said the doctor gruffly. He leaned forward and placed the little metal disks on the blue quilted gown and bent his head.

The two men were silent. Medfield with his head against the back of the chair and his eyes closed was wondering guiltily what the two little flexible tubes were revealing to the listening ears.

And Dr. Carmon, behind an impenetrable scowling mask, was wondering what the devil had gone wrong with Herman Medfield. And he listened--not so much with his ears, as with those little inner senses that never deceived him if he trusted them.

He slipped off the stethoscope and sat up. "Did you say you had pain?" he asked.

"A little." The tone was weary.

Dr. Carmon looked at him sharply. "Whereabouts?"

Medfield turned his head restively. "Everywhere," he said. "Up my back and shoulders--the right one--and in my head."