Chapter 39

THE SWAYING BALANCE

Dr. Melton was at the top of the stairs as the other man came bounding up. "Where in God's name have you been?" he demanded. "Did you start as soon as my messenger--"

"No messenger came--only 'Stashie just now. I started the instant she--"

"Have you the paper--the contract--whatever it--"

Rankin showed a flash of white in his pocket. "Is she able to sign it?"

"Oh, she _must_! She won't have an instant's peace until she does. She has been wild because you were so late in--"

Their hurried, broken colloquy was cut short by a nurse who came to Dr. Melton, saying, "The patient is always asking if the gentleman who is to--"

"Yes, yes; he is here." The doctor motioned her to precede them. "Go in; you're needed as a witness."

He held Rankin back an instant at the door. "Remember! No heroics! Just have the signing done as quickly as possible and get out!" His little wizened face looked ghastly in the dim light of the hall, but his voice was firm, and his hand did not tremble.

Rankin followed him into the bedroom, which was filled with a strong odor of antiseptics. The nurse turned on the electric light, shading it with her hand so that the light fell only on the lower part of the bed, leaving Lydia's head in the shadow.

She lay very straight and stark, as though, thought Rankin despairingly, she were already dead. Her right arm was out over the sheet, her thin hand nerveless. Her face was very white, her lips swollen and bleeding as though she had bitten them repeatedly. She was absolutely motionless, lying on her back with closed eyes. At the slight sound made by the men in entering, she opened her eyes and looked at them. Every vestige of color dropped out of Rankin's face. Her eyes were alive, sane, exalted--Lydia's own eyes again.

He was holding the paper open in his hand, and without a word knelt down by the bed, offering it to her mutely. Their eyes met in a long gaze. The doctor and nurse looked away from this mute communion. Rankin put a pen in Lydia's fingers and held up the paper. With, a faint, sighing breath, loud in the silent room, she raised her hand. It fell to the bed again. Dr. Melton then knelt beside her, put his own sinewy, corded fingers around it and guided it to the paper. The few lines were traced. Lydia's hand dropped and her eyes closed. Rankin stood up to go.

The nurse turned off the light and the room was again in a half obscurity, the deep, steady voice of the rain coming in through the open windows, the sweet summer-night smells mingling with the acrid odor of chemicals, Lydia lying straight and stark under the sheet--but now her eyes were open, shining, fixed on Rankin. Their light was the last he saw as he closed the door behind him.

After a time the doctor came out and joined Rankin waiting at the head of the stairs. He looked very old and tired, but the ghastly expression of strain was replaced with a flickering restlessness. He came up to Rankin, blinking rapidly, and touched him on the arm. "Look here!" he whispered. "Her pulse has gone down from a hundred and fifty to a hundred and thirty."

He sat down on the top step, clasped his hands about his knees, and leaned his white head against the balustrade. He looked like some small, weary, excited old child. "Lord, Rankin! Sit down when you get a chance!" he whispered. "If you'd been through what I have! And you needn't try to get me to add another word to what I've just told you. I don't dare! It may mean nothing, you know. It may very likely mean nothing. Good Heavens! The mental sensitiveness of women at this time! It's beyond belief. I never get used to the miracle of it. Everything turns on it--everything! If the pulse should go down ten more now, I should--Oh, Heaven bless that crazy Celt for getting you here! Good Lord! If you hadn't come when you did! I don't see what could have become of the messenger I sent--why, hours ago--I knew that nothing could go right if you weren't--is that the door?" He sprang up and sank back again--"I told the nurse to report as soon as there was any change--I was afraid if I stayed in the room she would feel the twitching of my damned nerves--yes, really--it's so--she's in a state when a feather's weight--suppose 'Stashie hadn't brought you! I couldn't have kept Madeleine off much longer--God! if _Madeleine_ had gone into that room, I--Lydia--but nobody told 'Stashie to go! It must have been an inspiration. I thought of course my messenger--I was expecting you every instant. She's been crouching out here in the hall all night, not venturing even to ask a question, until I caught sight of her eyes--she loves Lydia too! I told her then the baby had come and that her mistress had no chance unless you were here. She must have--when did she--"

Rankin gave a sound like a sob, and leaned against the wall. He had not stirred before since the doctor's first words. "You don't mean there's _hope_?" he whispered, "any hope at all?"

The doctor sprang at him and clapped his hand over his mouth. "I didn't say it! I didn't say it!"

The door behind them opened, and the nurse stepped out with a noiseless briskness. The doctor walked toward her steadily and listened to her quick, low-toned report. Then he nodded, and she stepped back into the bedroom and shut the door. He stood staring at the floor, one hand at his lips.

Rankin made an inarticulate murmur of appeal. His face glared white through the obscurity of the hall.

The older man went back to him, and looked up earnestly into his eyes. "Yes; there's every hope," he said. He added, with a brave smile: "For you and Lydia there's every hope in the world. For me, there's the usual lot of fathers."