Part 8

"Your head aches, does it?" That was the outside question; and inside, all the little therapeutic fibres in Dr. Carmon's stubby figure were saying to him: "His head is as good as yours is, this minute! What's the matter with him? Buck up--and find out!"

He put his hand on the patient's wrist. "What would you like for dinner?" he asked.

"I couldn't eat anything," said Medfield passively.

"Not a nice chop--with some asparagus and mayonnaise?" The doctor was watching the face.

Medfield shook his head resolutely. "I don't feel like eating."

"Very well." Dr. Carmon sat back and looked at him. "I think you'd better go to bed--and stay there for a while."

"You think I got up too soon?" Medfield's voice was patient and full of acquiescence; it was very meek.

"I don't think anything," said Dr. Carmon gruffly. "But when a man can't eat, he'd better be in bed.... There's nothing the matter with you."

Medfield's heart gave a quick little jump, and the doctor's hand that had strayed again to his wrist, counted it grimly.

"You're tired. That's all! Had company?"

"Some one came in--yes. She only stayed a few minutes," he added virtuously.

"Well." Dr. Carmon got up. "That didn't hurt you--probably. You'll be all right. How's the boy?"

"All right. He's generally here," replied Medfield.

"Doesn't tire you?"

Herman Medfield's eyes opened quickly. "I want him here!" he said sharply.

Dr. Carmon's thought followed the look swiftly. "It isn't the boy, but it's something about him. I'll see the boy."

He rang the bell. "I'd get to bed right away if I were you."

It was Aunt Jane who came leisurely in, glancing at the two men. "Miss Canfield's at dinner. She'll come pretty quick--if you need her."

"We don't need her. He's to go to bed for a while." The doctor nodded to Herman Medfield, who had got up from his chair, and was standing beside him.

The millionaire in his blue silk robe with the velvet girdle and tassel was a stately figure; and, for the second time, Aunt Jane had a lively sense of Dr. Carmon's short, uncouthness and rumpled clothes--there was a large grease spot on the front of his vest. Her mind made a quick note of the spot while her eyes travelled placidly to Herman Medfield.

"I'm glad you've made up your mind," she said pleasantly.

He was moving toward the door of his bedroom. He stopped. "It isn't _my_ mind. It's the doctor's mind that's made up," he replied suavely.

Dr. Carmon watched him and smiled a little and Miss Canfield, coming in the door, wondered what Dr. Carmon's smile meant.

Aunt Jane and the doctor returned to the office.... She faced him.

"What's the matter?" she said.

He shook his head. "Just one of those things to keep you guessing." He shrugged his shoulders.

Aunt Jane's eye rested on the grease spot. "Soap and water will take that off!" she said practically. She laid a finger on the spot.

The doctor doubled his chin to look down on himself.

"Have the water hot--and plenty of soap," said Aunt Jane.

He grunted, and drew his coat over the spot. "When I get time," he replied.

XXVIII

Aunt Jane was in her office. It was Monday morning and the wheels had gritted getting under way. She had poured a drop of oil here and another drop there, as it seemed needed, and had come back to her office for a general survey before starting again.

It was well known in the House of Mercy that the times when the whole hospital force went scurrying about, under some sudden emergency, were often the times that Aunt Jane chose, for some unknown reason, to sit quietly in her office, doing nothing.

Hurrying by the office door, with tense look and quick-running feet, they would catch a glimpse of Aunt Jane sitting placidly at ease; and they would slow down a little, perhaps, and wonder what she could be thinking of to sit there as if nothing were wrong.... And then, somehow, through the hospital would run a quiet, steadying force that seemed to hold them in place and use them for its ends; and they would be conscious, as they worked, of being bigger than they had guessed.

Aunt Jane was not thinking now of any crisis. The troubles this morning were petty ones--"pin pricks," she called them. She was wondering about the millionaire--and wondering whether she would better go to Suite A.... Miss Canfield had reported a good night and Dr. Carmon would be coming soon.

She looked up. The doctor's figure was in the doorway. He nodded gruffly as he took off his coat. "Everybody all right?"

Aunt Jane's tongue clicked a little. She went to a corner of the room and moved back the screen and turned on the hot water.

"Come here," she said.

The doctor looked at her inquiringly.

"You didn't clean your vest! It's a perfect sight!" She tested the water with her hand and took up the soap.

Dr. Carmon glanced down at the expanse of vest guiltily. He scowled. "I'm too busy--to fuss." He reached for his bag.

"Come here!" said Aunt Jane.

And while he fidgeted and grumbled, her firm, efficient fingers scrubbed at him with soap and hot water and a bit of rough cloth. Satisfaction shone on him. "I never knew a man that could keep himself clean!" she said briskly.

"There!" She stood back a little. "It doesn't show much now. I'll do a little more on it--when it's dried off so I can see."

He backed hastily away. "I'll send it to the tailor. I'll do it to-night."

"You don't need to waste money on tailors," she said calmly. "A little soap and--" But he was gone.

Aunt Jane smiled to herself and put back the soap and hung up the cloth and replaced the screen. She moved with the ample leisure of those who have plenty of time.

A nurse came in from the waiting-room. "A man is here--a Mr. Dalton. He wants to know if he can see you?"

"Yes, I'll see him," said Aunt Jane.

"He said he could come again if you are too busy." The nurse waited.

"No, I'm not busy--no busier than I always am, I guess. You tell him to come in."

He came in with quick step and a little light in his face--as if a glint of sun shone on a dark field.

Aunt Jane looked at him approvingly. "You're doing first-rate!"

He laughed. "I don't have to try. Luck is coming my way now!"

"Folks generally have to go fully half-way to meet it," said Aunt Jane. "You seen your wife?"

He nodded. "She has been telling me--I want to thank you!" He said it impulsively and came nearer to her; his dark face worked with something he did not say.

"Sit down, Mr. Dalton. You don't need to thank _me_," said Aunt Jane.

"Edith told me----"

"Yes, I don't doubt she told you. She thinks I did something, maybe. But I didn't.... When folks get well," she was looking at him and speaking slowly. "When folks get well they _get_ well--all over; and then no matter _who_ comes along and says to 'em, 'Why don't you do so-and-so?'--they think it's something special.... Maybe it's just as well to let them think it--" she was smiling to him--"if it helps any."

"But it's true!" he said stoutly. "I've known Edith longer than you have--she hasn't ever been the way she is now."

"I'm glad for you, Mr. Dalton!" said Aunt Jane heartily, "and I know you'll be good to her. I can see it in your face--that you treat her well."

The face clouded. "I mean to--but I never seem to know just how she'll take things----"

"What's been the trouble?" asked Aunt Jane.

"She didn't tell you?"

Aunt Jane shook her head. "We didn't talk much--just visited together a little and got acquainted."

He seemed thoughtful. "I think the real trouble is something that never gets put into words; and it isn't so easy to put in words.... I'm a failure, I guess!" He looked up apologetically. "I don't know that you will understand. But I've had chances--every sort of chance--and I've never made good."

"Never made money, you mean," said Aunt Jane placidly.

He looked up quickly. "That's it!"

"What seemed to be the matter?"

"I don't know." He was looking before him. "When I got through college, I thought I was going to get on all right--thought I should be a big man some day." He looked at her and smiled.

"You look pretty big and strong," assented Aunt Jane.

He laughed out. "I'm big enough this way!" He reached out his arms from the broad shoulders and clinched the hands a little. "I can tackle anything in sight. But--" he leaned forward--"it's the things that are out of sight that I can't seem to come to grips with."

"That's what bothers most folks, I guess--men folks special," said Aunt Jane. "I've known a good many men, and I like them.... I like men better'n I do women," she added a little guiltily, "but sometimes it seems to me, when I'm with 'em, as if they were blind--a little mite blind about what's going on inside."

She rocked a little.

"Maybe it's just because they're slow," she said reflectively. "They can't see quick, the way women can, and they're kind of afraid of what they can't see--some like children in the dark." She was smiling at him.

He nodded. "You've got it! I shouldn't wonder if that's the way Edith feels. She's never said it just that way. But she doesn't seem to understand what I'm after; and I can't tell her--because I don't know myself," he added candidly.

"So while you're figuring it out, she calls it something else?" said Aunt Jane.

"That's it! And then we get--angry, and I can't even think. It seems to paralyze me, some way."

Aunt Jane was smiling to herself. "'Most seems as if it would have been a better way to have men folks marry men folks--" She looked at him shrewdly. "They'd get along more comfortable?"

He shook his head and laughed. "I want Edith just the way she is. But I wish----"

"Yes--we all do." Aunt Jane nodded. "We like what we've got--pretty well. But we're always wishing it was a little mite different some way.... I like my work here; and I do it about as well as I know how. But some days I wish--" She broke off and sat looking before her.

The young man's face regarded her attentively. He leaned forward. "I'm taking too much of your time. I didn't think how busy you must be. I'll go now. And thank you for letting me talk." He stood up.

Aunt Jane reached out a hand.

"Sit down, Mr. Dalton. That's what my time is for--to talk about things.... What was it you said you wished?"

He sat down. "I'd like to tell you--if you really have time.... And it won't take so long--" He was looking at it thoughtfully. "You see, I've never made good, because I've never stayed long in one place. That is what frets Edith--what she can't understand."

"It's hard for a woman--always changing round," said Aunt Jane. "Hard on the furniture."

He smiled. "We haven't changed house so many times. It's been mostly in the city here. But each time I've had to start all over.... After we were married, I went in with Clark & Lyman; that's Edith's father--George B. Lyman; and I thought I was fixed for life. And it wasn't six months before I had to move on."

"I suppose you'd done something they didn't like," commented Aunt Jane.

He laughed. "It was what I _didn't_ do! They said I didn't take my chances. Edith's father said I didn't."

"Take risks, you mean?"

"No.... Chances to make money--he said I let the best chances go by."

"Why did you do that?" asked Aunt Jane. Her face, turned to him, was full of kindly interest.

He sat with his hands thrust in his pockets, looking at her.

"That's what I've never been able to tell Edith," he said slowly. "But I think I can tell you--if you'll let me.... I've been thinking about it a good deal since she's been ill and I think it's because I always see something ahead--something bigger--that I'd rather work for." The hands thrust themselves deeper into his pockets and his face grew intent. "I feel it so strongly--that it seems wasteful to stop to pick up the twopenny bits they're scrambling for."

He threw back his shoulders. "Well, I'm going to try.... I've made up my mind--She means more to me than anything in the world and if she can't be happy, I'm going to give it up.... That's all! And thank you for letting me talk it out. It's done me more good than you know!" He held out his hand.

Aunt Jane took it slowly. "I don't quite think I'd give up, Mr. Dalton." She was looking at him through her glasses, and the young man had a sudden sense that her face was beautiful. "I don't think I'd give up--not quite yet--if I was you."

XXIX

Dr. Carmon and Aunt Jane stood in the sitting-room of Suite A. The door to the bedroom was ajar, and through it Miss Canfield could be seen moving about and waiting on Herman Medfield.

Aunt Jane went quietly to the door and drew it together with noiseless touch. "How is he?" she asked.

"All right. There's nothing the matter--that I can find out." Dr. Carmon shrugged his shoulders a little. "Temperature normal--no change, you see." He pointed to the chart lying on the table, and ran his finger along the lines. "Pulse good. Slept like a top, Miss Canfield says."

"She's to go on ward duty to-day," said Aunt Jane.

He looked up quickly. "I want her!"

"You said, yesterday, I could have her for the Men's Ward," replied Aunt Jane. She was looking critically at the spot on his vest and he drew his coat quickly together.

"That was yesterday," he said gruffly. "I can't spare her now."

Aunt Jane sighed. "It doesn't seem right for one person to have everything."

"He'll have to have things--for a while," replied Dr. Carmon. "He'll have to have what he wants--till I find out what's wrong with him.... He wants Miss Canfield--and I can't take the risk of having him upset!" He spoke a little brusquely at the end.

Aunt Jane's feathers ruffled themselves. "I don't know what call he has to expect to have any particular nurse!" she said. "We shall take good care of him, whatever nurse he has!"

"Yes--yes--of course." Dr. Carmon was testy and placating. "But I told him he could have Miss Canfield--till he was out of bed--and she'll have to stay."

"You told him--he could have Miss Canfield!" Aunt Jane's eye held something and looked at it. "When did you tell him that?" she asked at last, letting it go.

"I told him yesterday--when you sent for me.

"After the widow was here?"

"Yes." He looked at her. "Anything wrong about that?" Dr. Carmon was not in his best humor. He felt Aunt Jane's eye boring through to the offending spot and there was subtle disapproval in her manner--something he did not quite fathom. "She'll have to stay!" he said--and the tone was final.

Aunt Jane's only reply was a little chuckling laugh.

He glared at her and went out.

Her smile followed him from the room. She went over to the window. From the next room came the sound of voices--Miss Canfield's low and quieting, and Herman Medfield's expostulating and fretful--and then silence.

Aunt Jane went across and opened the door. She looked in on Herman Medfield. He was lying with his eyes closed and an almost peaceful expression on his countenance. Miss Canfield was not in the room.

He opened his eyes and saw Aunt Jane and closed them quickly. His face changed subtly and swiftly to mild distress.

Aunt Jane came leisurely in.

The eyes did not open or respond to her questioning look.

She sat down by the bed.

"Good morning," he said feebly.

Aunt Jane smiled. "I didn't think it was good--not very good--not from what Dr. Carmon told me," she said slowly.

Medfield sighed. "Some pain," he admitted. He turned his head restlessly.

"Well, we must expect _some_ pain." Her voice was as big and breezy as all outdoors.

Medfield's face relaxed under it--to a kind of meek patience.

Aunt Jane watched it kindly.

"What you need, Mr. Medfield, is a good wife----"

The eyes flew open--and stared--and closed again quickly.

She nodded. "That's what I've been thinking--some one that has sense and can do things--not just talk about 'em."

He smiled faintly. "I'm taken very good care of," he replied politely. "I couldn't ask for better care than I've had here." The eyes closed themselves again.

"Yes--Miss Canfield's a good nurse." She was watching the face and the closed eyes. "She takes good care--and she's got sense.... What I was thinking was, that you could go home now--if you had somebody to go with you to look after you and take interest--if you had a wife."

"I'm not well enough," interposed Medfield quickly.

"Oh, yes--you're well enough, I guess."

"The doctor said I was to stay in bed!" His defense was almost spirited.

"You and Julian could go together," went on Aunt Jane ignoring it. "_He'll_ look after you some."

Medfield groaned. And Aunt Jane reached out a hand to his forehead. Her cool touch rested on it.

"Your head feels all right," she said, smoothing it slowly.

The little wrinkles went out of Medfield's brow and Aunt Jane watched it relax.

"Better tell me all about it," she said gently. "You'll feel better to get it off your mind, maybe."

"I _don't_ feel well, you know." It was almost apologetic.

"No--and next thing you know, you'll be down sick--just pretending.... I've been thinking about it," she said slowly. "Ever since you were took down yesterday--but I didn't sense what was the matter--not till this morning."

"You don't know now!" Herman Medfield's tone was guilty and a little apprehensive.

Aunt Jane smiled. "Yes, I reckon I see it just about the way it is--now.... You don't _want_ to get well--not yet."

"No." He admitted it feebly.

"And you don't want we should take Miss Canfield off your case."

He said nothing.

"Well, we're not going to take her off."

His face brightened a little.

Aunt Jane laughed softly. "That's right! You can chirk up--all you want to!... You _do_ need a good wife--much as anybody ever I see."

He opened his lips--and stared at her--and closed them. "I--I believe I do!" His eyes rested on the fresh childlike color in Aunt Jane's face and the little lines that twinkled at him.

"I believe I do!" he repeated softly.

Aunt Jane nodded sagely, "That's what you need."

She got up leisurely. "Well, I must go do my work."

He put out his hand. "When will you come again?" he asked.

"Oh--along by and by." She was moving from him. "You just tend to getting well.... You'll be able to sit up some time this afternoon maybe." She nodded to him from the door and was gone.

He lay looking at the place where she had disappeared. A little wonder held his face; a gentleness had come into it and the eyes watching the closed door smiled dreamily.

When Miss Canfield returned she glanced at him in surprise. "You're looking better!" she exclaimed.

"I feel better!" said Medfield almost gayly. "The pain is entirely gone."

"That's good! We'll have you up--in a day or two."

"I don't see why Julian has not been in," replied Medfield.

She paused. "He did come," she spoke slowly. "But we thought perhaps it was better not to disturb you.... You were sleeping when he came--you seemed to be asleep."

"Did _you_ see him?" demanded Medfield.

"Yes." The little dear color that was always in her face mounted a trifle. "He's coming after dinner," she added quietly.

Medfield's face was cheerful. "I want to see him when he comes-- If I am asleep, you tell him to wait."

"Very well, sir."

"You tell him, yourself. Don't trust any of those people out there!" He made a motion of distrust toward the hospital in general. "You have him wait--see him yourself."

XXX

In the linen-room at the end of the corridor Miss Canfield was busy with supplies for Suite A. She stood on a chair in front of a great cupboard; and her shoulders were lost in the depths of the cupboard.... A sound behind her caused her to withdraw her head.

Julian Medfield, standing in the door, looked at her.

"What is the matter?" she said quickly. She got down from the chair.

"I thought I should find you," replied the youth.

"Did you want me?"

"Yes."

"What has happened?"

He watched her smilingly. "I didn't say anything had happened.... I said I wanted you."

The color mounted swiftly and she turned to the pile of linen on the table and gathered it up. "I am rather busy this morning," she said quietly. "I thought you meant your father needed something."

"No--he doesn't need anything, I guess. They told me in the office, that _you_ wanted _me_--they said you had left word for me. They made a mistake, perhaps." He spoke half teasingly and she lifted her chin.

"That was your father," she replied. "He didn't want to miss you." She sorted out the sheets impersonally. She had not looked at him after the first flurried minute.

"Do you want me to go away?" he said quietly.

She looked up, startled. "Why?"

"I didn't know."

Her fingers returned to their work. "I think your father is awake," she said in a businesslike tone. "I will go and see." She placed the linen in the cupboard and closed the door and locked it.

His hand made a little gesture. "Would you please----"

She waited.

"I can't say anything if you look like that!" he said whimsically.

She moved from him to the window. "There isn't any need to--say anything!"

The reddish hair was lighted up against the window as he had seen it before, and he watched it.

"That's the way _I_ feel!" he said softly.

"How do you feel?" She wheeled about and looked at him.

"As if there wasn't any need to say things. As if----"

She had turned back to the window. He went toward her.

"You've known all along!" he said.

He addressed the little locks gathered up under her cap.

He was quite near to her now.

"You knew--the first day I came--when I saw you--in father's room," he declared to the little locks of hair. "Didn't you?"

There was no reply.

"And every time I've seen you since!" he said exultingly. "And now that I've got you alone for a minute--you pretend----"

"I'm not pretending!" The shoulders shrugged a little.

"And turn your back on me," he added quietly.

"It's very thoughtless!" she said, speaking to the window. "You make it awkward for me.... I hoped you would have sense enough--not to say anything!"

"I haven't any sense," said the young man. "And you have so much.... That's why I like you. I fell in love with your sense--the first day!"

She had turned and faced him now. "Of course you don't care!" she said indignantly. "It is just a joke to you--to come, interfering with my work----"

"I didn't mean to stop you!" He glanced helplessly at the linen-cupboard.

"I mean my nursing!" she said with dignity. "I can't take care of your father if you're looking at me--and saying foolish things--all the time!"

He reached out a hand. "I'm not saying foolish things," he said quietly. "And you know it----"

A little bell buzzed somewhere and she lifted her head. "He's ringing--" she said quickly. "It's his bell! I'll have to go!"

Then she waited.

And he took her hands and looked down at them, and bent and kissed them gently, and watched the little color come dancing into her face.

"Pretending you didn't care!" he said.

He crushed the two hands hard and she cried out and drew them away--and lifted them to her face and began to cry into them--little hard sobs that shook her. And he held her close and patted the troubled shoulder.

"There, there!" he said. His voice was very young and happy and surprised.

And she looked up and smiled--a queer little reddened smile--under her crooked cap.

The bell tinkled--and rang a long shrill burr.

"I shall have to go! I know I look like a fright!" She reached to the cap.

"You look dear!" said the young man exultantly.

But she was gone and he was speaking only to the white wainscoted panels of the linen-room and to the sunlight flooding in.

XXXI

Herman Medfield glanced at her sharply as she came in.

"I've been ringing some time," he said dryly.

"I was in the linen-room. I'm sorry. I came as soon as I could."

He looked at her face. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing." She shook her head.

"You look as if you had been crying," he said, studying her.

"I haven't anything to cry about. I am very happy!" She returned his gaze serenely, with a little fluttering look that came and went underneath.