Part 2

For an instant she seemed almost to sway in the doorway, as if she had come to the utmost limit of strength; she was paler than he had ever seen her, and, he thought, more lovely. He could never behold her without an immediate sense of abasement. Her beauty was of that indefinable sort which touches the heart and imagination rather than storms the senses. Men did not look upon her as at some beautiful creature on exhibition; always they looked, to be sure, but straightway the masculine appraisement of their gaze changed to the look one bestows upon some high and lovely thing. Her face had that fullness through the temples that Murillo loved; her eyes, hazel or brown or gray, changing in color with the responsive widening of the pupils, were rather far apart, deeply set, warm with interest when she looked directly at you; dark hair, ruddily brown, that broke into curl whenever a strand escaped, framed her face closely, and was always worn more simply than fashion demanded. She was tall enough to play a man's games well, and the impression that she gave was one of vigor and alertness, almost of impatience. This was the first time Flood had seen her tired.

And, as always when he saw her, it swept over him that she was, alone and above all others, the woman he wanted. She was beautiful, but it was not her beauty, not her social eminence, certainly not her wealth, nor anything that she might be said to represent, that constituted her appeal for him. There was that in her which he had not met elsewhere in his countrywomen, though frequently enough in France and England, a simplicity, a calmness, a dignity, which he interpreted as a consciousness that she needed no pretense, no further struggle or ambition to be other than just what she was. And what she was, was what he very much wanted. For him, she was the bright sum of all desire, the embodiment of everything rare and fine, which he now craved all the more because they had been denied him in his earlier years. Months before, since the first time he saw her, he had known that, and accepted it as an inspiration, as he had accepted and lived upon the fine flashes of imagination that had led him on to fortune in those western days, when imagination and courage had been his stock in trade; it was only the ultimate, and by far the most important, of those!

But Miss Randall was certainly unaware that she aroused in anyone in her drawing-room stronger feelings than the mild ones which usually accompany afternoon tea. After an instant's survey from the doorway, she came into the room, trying to smile through her fatigue.

"Mercy, Rosamund! You look like a ghost! Have you been walking yourself to death again?" her sister asked.

Flood's greeting was only a silent bow and a touch of her offered hand, but Pendleton was never speechless.

"I say, Rose," he cried, "Flood's just been inviting us all down to Virginia for June, and dear Cecilia has accepted! Can you stand the joy of having me to talk to for a whole month, Rosamund?"

At a quick spark in her sister's eyes, Cecilia bent towards her and spoke somewhat hastily. "Mr. Flood has bought Oakleigh, the Gore place. Isn't it nice of him to ask us down there, first of all?"

Although to her sister her look seemed to hold many things, to Flood's infatuated eyes the girl seemed suddenly more tired, harassed, or troubled; and with another of his flashes of intuition he would not give her a chance to reply. He began to tell them about his lone journey, talking very well, quite sure of his facts and with a large enthusiasm, and in spite of herself Rosamund became more and more interested. She even smiled a little at his account of the mountain doctor's old mare and her wisdom; she even found herself willing to hear more about the doctor!

"But, I assure you," Flood went on, "it wouldn't have taken anyone long to discover that he was not the usual country doctor. There is something about the man that would attract the attention of the world, if he lived on a pillar or were buried beneath the sands of Arizona. Personality, I suppose, unless you're willing to look the fact in the face and admit that a certain force emanates from greatness, wherever----"

"Oh, say!" Pendleton protested; and Flood laughed, rather shamefacedly, as a man laughs when he is discovered reading a learned book or quoting a classic.

But Miss Randall would not have that. "Please don't mind him, Mr. Flood; I want to hear the rest of it."

Again Flood was taken unawares, and his face flushed; but he went on to describe the evening before the doctor's fire, the four days he had remained, a willing guest, the drives about the mountains in the doctor's buggy--lest his own car should startle the shy mountain people.

"And since I've got back, I've been finding out about him. You know how it is--meet a chap you never heard of before, and straightway find out that a dozen people you know have known him for years.

"Last night I met Doctor Hiram Wilson in the club; he said it was the first time he'd had a chance to run in for months, yet he happened to be the first man I saw there. I was telling him something about this chap, and found he knew all about him. 'Keenest young investigator I ever knew,' he said, 'and came near working himself to death. How is he now?' He seemed mighty glad when I told him I could not have suspected that Ogilvie had ever been ill. Then he called Professor Grayson over, to repeat what I'd just told him; and I wish you could have seen old Grayson's face. He was delighted, but he could really tell more about Ogilvie than I could. It seems that Ogilvie was under him for a time, but had really gone far beyond him; then he made himself ill by working day and night in his laboratory, and some of his medical friends packed him off to those mountains to get well. He was too far gone to protest, I guess; but before he was well enough to come back, he was so interested in the people there that he was willing to stay. Now the big fellows have fallen into the way of sending patients down to Bluemont, in the summer, to be near him; and he consults everywhere all over the country. They told me last night that his investigations and experiments on the nervous system would do more to save the vision than----"

But Miss Randall, at the word, exclaimed, and with parted lips and brightening eyes leaned towards him. Flood stopped, amazed.

"Vision! His work is for vision? For the eyes?" she cried.

"His experimental work. Of course, in the mountains----"

But Mrs. Maxwell was tired of Flood's enthusiasm. "Dear me! She is going to tell him about Eleanor! Take pity on me, Marshall, and help me to escape!" she exclaimed, jumping up.

But her sister was far too deeply interested to be aware of their withdrawing towards the window. "Oh, Mr. Flood, is he really successful? Can he really help?"

"I am told, and I believe, that he is a great man, Miss Randall. But surely----"

For the first time the weary look had left her face. "Mr. Flood, if you can help me! I have a friend, the dearest friend I have in the world, who believes she is going to be blind. I don't believe it! I will not! And yet, it would not be remarkable--she has been through so much, so much! Oh, I cannot bear to think of it!"

Her hands were clasped on her knees, and she bent her head over them to hide the tears in her eyes.

"You have been with her this afternoon?" Flood surmised.

"We have spent the afternoon at an oculist's," she said. "I have begged her for weeks, for weeks, to let me take her--but she is so proud, oh, so foolishly proud--and to-day--to-day--Oh, it is unbearably cruel!"

She arose, and stood half turned from him, to hide her emotion, swaying a little; and intensely as he had wanted many things, Flood had never wanted anything so keenly as to comfort her--to comfort her by taking her in his arms, if he could, but above all, by any means, to comfort her. Hitherto it had seemed impossible, in his modesty, to make her realize his existence apart from the multitude; he welcomed this heaven-sent opportunity. Quite suddenly, in his need, he found his faith in Ogilvie increased a hundredfold; but he was too much concerned to perceive the humor of it.

"Oh, but--" he cried, "but I should never in the world accept one man's opinion as final! And I assure you, Ogilvie is called in consultation by Blake, Wilson, Whitred. I should certainly have her see him!"

She seated herself again, wearily. "Ah, she is so proud! It is only when she sees I am fairly breaking my heart over her that she will let me do anything."

"Then she is not--she has not----?"

"Oh, as for what she has and what she is, those are quite two different things, Mr. Flood! She is the dearest and loveliest and bravest creature in the world. She is more than I could possibly tell you. I have adored her ever since she was one of the big girls in the school where I was a tiny one. My father and mother were abroad, and Cecilia was up here in the North, with her father's people, and then married; and I was left in Georgia at school, oh, such a lonely little mite! Eleanor was everything in the world to me--big sister, little mother, friend--everything! Then she married, and my father died abroad and dear Mamma took me over with her. Eleanor and I wrote to each other, and I was godmother for her little boy; but Mamma and I were in France until--until Mamma died, three years ago; and it was only last year, when I came to live with Cecilia, that I found my Eleanor again."

Unconsciously she was revealing to Flood more of her life than he had known before; he was afraid to interrupt by so much as a question. His face had again taken on the expressionless mask which so well covered his emotion or interest.

"I had never realized it, Mr. Flood; but all the while I was having everything, my precious Eleanor was poor, very poor. She had no relatives near enough to count, and her guardian sent her to school with what little money she had. I'm afraid it did not teach her very well how to support herself! She married the year she left school; she has never spoken of him at all, but I don't believe her husband was--was all she had believed. When he died, she brought little Bob to New York.

"I heard dear old Mrs. Harley say, only a day or two ago, that there are thousands of Southern girls, dear, sweet girls who have never done any work at all, who come to New York every year to try to earn a living. Sometimes they think they can sing, sometimes they want to become artists, sometimes they just come; and Eleanor was one of them. Only, with her, it was worse, for she had Bob.

"I don't know how they got along. I was in Europe, and she would only write when I had sent Bob something. I never dreamed that people, people of my own sort, my own friends even, might be hungry, and not have money enough to buy anything to eat."

"You ought not to know it now," Flood said. But she only shook her head.

"I believe Eleanor has been hungry. And if you could only see her--she is so lovely, as lovely as a white lily!"

"Oh, but surely, Miss Randall, she could have got help! There are no end of places----"

"Yes. But a woman like Eleanor can't seek just any kind of help, you know, and--well, as darling Mrs. Harley says, charity doesn't help much, when it is only charity. Even from me, Eleanor says she cannot.

"When I came to New York to live with Cecilia, I went at once to see her. She let me do all I could for little Bob, but it was too late. He died. And now she will not let me do anything for her. I ask her what good my money is to me, if she will not let me use it as I want to! She would not even let me take her to an oculist until she saw that I was just breaking my heart over her! And now----"

Again her head was bent over her clasped hands; again she was too moved, for the moment, to speak. Flood seized his opportunity.

"Believe me, it can be arranged," he said. "You have taken me into your confidence--you will let me--advise, won't you?" She looked up eagerly, and he went quickly on. "See your friend, Mrs.----"

"Mrs. Reeves."

"See your friend, Mrs. Reeves, and tell her about Ogilvie. Tell her that he is looking for someone--a lady--to help with his work down in those mountains. Prepare her to accept his offer. I will telegraph him."

She looked at him blankly. "But--would it be true? I don't think I understand!"

He smiled reassuringly. "It would not be true that I am going to Europe to-morrow--but we could make it true! If we get her away from the city, and near Ogilvie, we can leave everything else to him. He's really a good deal of a man, you know."

Rosamund sprang to her feet. "Cecilia," she said, across the room, to her sister, "I am going back to Eleanor's."

III

In her enthusiasm at the chance of finding a way out for Eleanor, Rosamund seemingly forgot that it was Flood who helped her. As a matter of fact, she considered him so little that she was quite willing to make use of his assistance in so good a cause and then to ignore him. She had always found someone at hand to help her in anything she wanted to do; she could not remember a time when there was not someone ready and willing to gratify her least whim. It was only in her efforts on Eleanor's behalf that she was baffled for the first time, as much by Eleanor's own pride as by not knowing to whom to turn, or where help was to be found. It was a new experience for her to find that her money could do nothing; for it was precisely her money that her cherished Eleanor refused. If she was to do anything, it must be by some other means.

Flood was not as entirely unconscious of her attitude as he appeared. He had no intention of pressing himself upon her through making himself of use. He beheld her suffering in sympathy with this unknown friend of hers, and her suffering so worked upon his love for her that he would have done much more to lessen it. But he knew humanity; and while he took more pleasure in being generous than in any other of the powers his wealth had brought him, he gave without thought of benefits returned, save in the satisfaction of giving.

His first move was a letter to the mountain doctor.

MY DEAR DR. OGILVIE: [he wrote] Since my visit with you a matter has been brought to my attention in which I do not hesitate to ask your assistance. Two ladies whom I hold in highest esteem are in great anxiety over a friend of theirs whom they have known from childhood. This friend is a widow who has lately lost her son, having come to New York from the South a few years ago in the hope of supporting herself and the child, and being now alone here except for the ladies who are my friends and hers. Her situation, you will perceive, is common enough; but what adds to the distress in this instance is that Mrs. Reeves' eyes are affected, to what extent I do not know. I have not had the pleasure of meeting the lady myself; but I am told that her vision is not entirely to be despaired of; and my friend Doctor Hiram Wilson has great confidence in your power. It would be impossible to offer charity to Mrs. Reeves; and it would be equally impossible for her to go to the Summit to be near you without assistance; indeed, it has been impossible for her to consult an oculist here until the entreaties of my friends prevailed upon her to do so with them. But it occurs to me that you might find use for an assistant in your work in the mountains--a capable lady who has suffered enough to have sympathy with the sufferings of others, and that sort of thing. Now would you be willing to lend yourself to a mild deception for the sake of conferring a great benefit? If you can make use of Mrs. Reeves' assistance, I shall be very glad to remit to you whatever remuneration you might offer her. I should also expect to pay the usual fees for your attention to Mrs. Reeves' eyes. You will know best how to take up that matter with her, so as not to arouse her suspicions of its having been suggested to you. I should suggest that you write to me, asking whether I can advise you of a suitable person to fill the office of--whatever is the medical equivalent of parochial assistant. I am sure I may count upon your help; as I understand it, this is one of those cases whose claim cannot be denied by any one of us.

A few days later Flood went to Miss Randall with Ogilvie's reply:

Curiously enough, I have the very place for Mrs. Reeves. One of my patients, who has taken a cottage at the Summit for the summer, is looking for a companion. I am writing her by this mail to apply through you to Mrs. Reeves. We will see what we can do for those troublesome eyes; but I can manage it better if I don't have the haunting feeling that I am to be paid--you will understand that. Your parochial assistant plan sounded very tempting, but that sort of thing would be too good to be true.

Flood laughed when Rosamund looked up from reading it. "My friend Ogilvie seems to be as shy of possible charity as your Mrs. Reeves," he said.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Then he remembered that she could not know what he had written.

She saw his hesitancy and laughed. "Oh! So you've been offering charity, have you? I wish you'd let me see a copy of your letter!"

"Now what for?" he asked. "Ogilvie's idea beats mine."

"But I'd like to see your literary style," she said, still laughing at him.

"Oh, please!" he protested.

"Well, I think you are very good, Mr. Flood. The role of rescuer of dames is very becoming to you! If you could see my Eleanor you'd feel repaid. She is the loveliest and the dearest----"

"But I haven't done anything at all, I assure you. I'm sure I hope your friend will find this Mrs. Hetherbee a comfortable person to live with."

"Mrs. Hetherbee! Is that Doctor Ogilvie's patient?"

Flood nodded. "She telephoned me before I'd had my breakfast for Mrs. Reeves' address. That was my excuse for bothering you in the morning."

"You are good," she said. Then she added, a little ruefully, "I wish you could help me to break the news to Eleanor!"

For to persuade her Eleanor, as she had foreseen, was not as easy as to persuade Flood and the unknown doctor and his patient.

She knew the lunch-room that Eleanor liked best, and sought her there at the noon hour. They chatted across the small intervening table, until Eleanor arose.

"You are not going back to the office," Rosamund declared, when they were together on the street. "Now, Eleanor, please don't be difficult!"

"My dearest child!" Mrs. Reeves began; but Rosamund took her friend's arm through her own, and poured forth the story of how she had heard, through a Mr. Flood, that Mrs. Hetherbee wanted a companion.

"Who is Mrs. Hetherbee?" Eleanor asked, suspiciously.

"I haven't the least idea," Rosamund frankly admitted. "But she wants a companion, and she is going to spend the summer at Bluemont Summit, and----"

She paused, and Eleanor turned to her. "Rose, tell it all!" she said. "You wouldn't be suggesting my leaving one situation for another, unless you----"

"No, I wouldn't! I know it! I confess! I am! But you are so peculiar, Eleanor!"

They laughed together, and Rosamund took courage to tell her. "There is a man there who, they say, does wonders for the eyes. That is why I want you to go, Eleanor. I don't know what Mrs. Hetherbee will pay you; and I will not offer to--to--I will not offer anything at all! But oh, Eleanor, please, please go!"

They walked in silence to the vestibule of the towering building where Eleanor worked. At the elevator she turned to Rosamund.

"I will go to see Mrs. Hetherbee to-night," she said. "And I do love you!"

Some weeks thereafter Rosamund came home from bidding Mrs. Reeves farewell at the station, to find Cecilia once more dispensing tea to Pendleton and Flood; and she sent Flood into a state of speechless happiness with her thanks. Eleanor had promised to see Doctor Ogilvie about her eyes at once, and Mrs. Hetherbee had taken a tremendous fancy to Eleanor, and it was good of Mr. Flood to have sent those lovely flowers to the train. Eleanor had introduced her as a friend of Mr. Benson Flood, and was he willing that she should shine in his reflected glory? Because it had tremendously impressed Mrs. Hetherbee!

When the men had left, Cecilia turned to her sister. "He's in love with you, you know!" she said.

"Nonsense! I've known him all my life, Cissy, and you don't fall in love with a person you've seen spanked!"

"You know very well I'm not talking about Marshall," said Mrs. Maxwell. "And you know very well that Mr. Flood is tremendously in love with you."

"I think you're disgusting," said Rosamund. "For heaven's sake, don't try to follow the fashion of the women of our set in that respect, Cissy! Every man they know has to be in love with somebody--half the time with somebody else's wife! Oh, I loathe it!"

Cecilia remained calm. "I hope you don't loathe Mr. Flood," she said, "because he is."

Rosamund threw herself back in a deep chair, and looked at her sister in the exasperation one feels towards the sweetly stubborn.

"Oh, very well! He is! But that's nothing to me!"

"Isn't it? He probably thinks it is! You've taken his help for your precious Eleanor, you know, and you're going to Oakleigh next month."

"I am not going to do anything of the kind!"

That moved Cecilia. "But my dear child, you certainly are! He has asked me to be hostess for his first house-party, and I have accepted, and said you'd go with me."

"Cecilia!"

"Now don't say you've forgotten it! Why, it was the very day you told him about Eleanor."

Cecilia remained provokingly silent; and Rosamund jumped up impatiently, only to throw herself down upon another chair.

"Oh, I wish I had never seen the man!" she cried. "I did tell him about Eleanor, and I did let him do something for her. I would have taken help for Eleanor from anybody--from a street-sweeper, or the furnace man! That doesn't give your Mr. Flood any claim on me!"

"Yours, dear!" said Cecilia, smiling.

"He is not! Why, he is--nobody!"

"Well, that's not his fault. He wants to be somebody! He is doing his best to marry into our family, love!"

At that Rosamund had to laugh. "Oh, Cissy! Don't be such a goose! Mr. Flood is perfectly odious to me, and you know it. I don't see why you ever let Marshall introduce him! I don't see why you ever allowed him to so much as dare to invite us to Oakleigh!"

"But, my dear, Oakleigh is--Oakleigh!"

"What if it is? He ought to have known better than to ask us there, and I don't see why you accepted."

Mrs. Maxwell smiled. "Pity, my dear!" she explained. "Pity--the crumb to a starving dog--the farthing to a beggar! Besides, he will let me invite whom I please and--well, Benson Flood may be a suppliant for one thing, Rose, but he has, after all, more money than he can count!"

"Then why don't you marry him yourself?"

Mrs. Maxwell shrugged. "'Nobody asked me, sir, she said!' And besides, when poor dear Tommy died--oh, well, he did actually die, poor darling, so there never was any question of divorce or anything horrid, like that--you know how old-fashioned I am in my ideas, Rosamund! But still, there is such a thing as tempting Providence a little too often. My hopes are distinctly not matrimonial. Not that I think Mr. Flood is the least bit like Tommy. If I did, of course I couldn't conscientiously--you know! As it is, I think he'd do very well--in the family!"

"You show great respect for the family!"

"Oh, well, Rosamund, the family can stand it! You must admit that! I am sure the Stanfields and the Berkleys and the Randalls need not mind a--a--an alliance with--with the millions of a Benson Flood!"