Chapter 4

“Thank you, but I really prefer a walk before going to _my_ social intimates, the bacilli,” answered the doctor, as he went up the steps with her. Then, after he had rung the bell, he held out his hand and said: “Miss Durant, I need scarcely say, after what I have just told you, that my social training has been slight—so slight that I was quite unaware that the old adage, ‘Even a cat may look at a king,’ was no longer a fact until I overheard what was said the other day. My last wish is to keep you from coming to the hospital, and in expressing my regret at having been the cause of embarrassment to you, I wish to add a pledge that henceforth, if you will resume your visits, you and Swot shall be free from my intrusion. Good-night,” he ended, as he started down the steps.

“But I never—really I have no right to exclude—nor do I wish—” protested the girl; and then, as the servant opened the front door, even this halting attempt at an explanation ceased. She echoed a “Good-night,” adding, “and thank you for all your kindness,” and very much startled and disturbed the footman, as she passed into the hallway, by audibly remarking, “Idiot!”

She went upstairs slowly, as if thinking, and once in her room, seated herself at her desk and commenced a note. Before she had written a page she tore the paper in two and began anew. Twice she repeated this proceeding; then rose in evident irritation, and, walking to her fire, stood looking down into the flame. “I’ll think out what I had better do when I’m not so tired,” she finally remarked, as she rang for her maid. But once in bed, her thoughts, or the previous strain, kept her long hours awake; and when at last she dropped into unconsciousness her slumber was made miserable by dreams mixing in utter confusion operating-room and dinner, guests and microbes—dreams in which she was alternately striving to explain something to Dr. Armstrong, who could not be brought to understand, or to conceal something he was determined to discover. Finally she found herself stretched on the dinner-table, the doctor, knife in hand, standing over her, with the avowed intention of opening her heart to learn some secret, and it was her helpless protests and struggles which brought consciousness to her—to discover that she had slept far into the morning.

With the one thought of a visit to the hospital during the permitted hours, she made a hasty toilet, followed by an equally speedy breakfast, and was actually on her way downstairs when she recalled her promise of a gift. A glance at her watch told her that there was not time to go to the shops, and hurrying back to her room, she glanced around for something among the knick-knacks scattered about. Finding nothing that she could conceive of as bringing pleasure to the waif, she took from a drawer of her desk a photograph of herself, and descended to the carriage.

She had reason to be thankful for her recollection, as, once her greetings, and questions to the nurse about the patient’s condition were made, Swot demanded,

“Wheer’s dat present dat youse promised me?”

“I did not have time this morning to get something especially for you,” she explained, handing him the portrait, “so for want of anything better, I’ve brought you my picture.”

The urchin took the gift and looked at both sides. “Wotinell’s dat good for?” he demanded contemptuously.

“I thought—hoped it might please you, as showing you that I had forgiven—that I liked you.”

“Ah, git on de floor an’ look at youseself,” disgustedly remarked Swot. “Dat talk don’t cut no ice wid me. W’y didn’t youse ask wot Ise wants?”

“And what would you like?”

“Will youse guv me a pistol?”

“Why, what would you do with it?”

“I’d trow a scare into de big newsies w’en dey starts to chase me off de good beats.”

“Really, Swot, I don’t think I ought to give you anything so dangerous. You are very young to—”

“Ah! Youse a goil, an’ deyse born frightened. Bet youse life, if youse ask de doc, he won’t tink it nuttin’ to be scared of.”

“He isn’t here this morning,” remarked Constance, for some reason looking fixedly at the glove she was removing as she spoke.

The urchin raised his head and peered about. “Dat’s funny!” he exclaimed. “It’s de first time he oin’t bin here w’en youse wuz at de bat.”

“Has he seen you this morning?”

“Why, cert!”

The girl opened the dime novel and found the page at which the interruption had occurred, hesitated an instant, and remarked, “The next time he comes you might say that I would like to see him for a moment—to ask if I had better give you a pistol.” This said, she hastily began on the book. Thrillingly as the pursuits and pursuit of the criminal classes were pictured, however, there came several breaks in the reading; and had any keenly observant person been watching Miss Durant, he would have noticed that these pauses invariably happened whenever some one entered the ward.

It was made evident to her that she and Swot gave value to entirely different parts of her message to the doctor; for, no sooner did she reach the waif’s bedside the next morning than the invalid announced,—

“Say, Ise done my best to jolly de doc, but he stuck to it dat youse oughtn’t to guv me no pistol.”

“Didn’t you tell him what I asked you to say?” demanded Constance, anxiously.

“Soytenly. Ise says to ’im dat youse wanted to know wot he tought, an’ he went back on me. Ise didn’t tink he’d trun me down like dat!”

“I might better have written him,” murmured Miss Durant, thoughtfully. She sat for some time silently pondering, till the waif asked,—

“Say, youse goin’ to guv me dat present just de same, oin’t youse?”

“Yes, I’ll give you a present,” acceded the girl, opening the book. “I think, Swot,” she continued, “that we’ll have to trouble Dr. Armstrong for another Old Sleuth, as we shall probably finish this to-day. And tell him this time it is my turn to pay for it,” From her purse she produced a dime, started to give it to the boy, hastily drew back her hand, and replacing the coin, substituted for it a dollar bill. Then she began reading rapidly—so rapidly that the end of the story was attained some twenty minutes before the visitors’ time had expired.

“Say,” was her greeting on the following day, as Swot held up another lurid-looking tale and the dollar bill, “Ise told de doc youse wuzn’t willin’ dat he, bein’ poor, should bleed de cash dis time, an’ dat youse guv me dis to—”

“You didn’t put it that way, Swot?” demanded Miss Durant.

“Wot way?”

“That I said he was poor.”

“Soytenly.”

“Oh, Swot, how could you?”

“Wot’s de matter?”

“I never said that! Was he—was he—What did he say?”

“Nuttin’ much, ’cept dat I wuz to guv youse back de dough, for de books wuz on ’im.”

“I’m afraid you have pained him, Swot, and you certainly have pained me. Did he seem hurt or offended?”

“Nop.”

“I wish you would tell him I shall be greatly obliged if he will come to the ward to-morrow, for I wish to see him. Now don’t alter this message, please, Swot.”

That her Mercury did her bidding more effectively was proved by her finding the doctor at the bedside when she arrived the next day.

“Swot told me that you wished to see me, Miss Durant,” he said.

“Yes, and I’m very much obliged to you for waiting. I—How soon will it be possible for him to be up?”

“He is doing so famously that we’ll have him out of bed by Monday, I hope.”

“I promised him a present, and I want to have a Christmas tree for him, if he can come to it.”

“Wot’s dat?” came the quick question from the bed.

“If you don’t know, I’m going to let it be a surprise to you, Swot. Do you think he will be well enough to come to my house? Of course I’ll send my carriage.”

“If he continues to improve, he certainly will be.”

“Say, is dat de ting dey has for de mugs wot goes to Sunday-school, an’ dat dey has a party for?”

“Yes, only this tree will be only for you, Swot,”

“Youse oin’t goin’ to have no udder swipes but me?”

“No.”

“Den who’ll git all de presents wot’s on de tree?” inquired Swot, suggestively.

“Guess!” laughed Constance.

“Will dey all be for me?”

“Yes.”

“Hully gee! But dat’s grand! Ise in it up to de limit, doc, oin’t Ise?” exclaimed the waif, turning to the doctor.

Dr. Armstrong smiled and nodded his head, but something in his face or manner seemed to give a change to the boy’s thoughts, for, after eyeing him intently, he said to Constance,—

“Oin’t youse goin’ to invite de doc?”

Miss Durant coloured as she said, with a touch of eagerness yet shyness, “Dr. Armstrong, I intended to ask you, and it will give me a great deal of pleasure if you will come to Swot’s and my festival.” And when the doctor seemed to hesitate, she added, “Please!” in a way that would have very much surprised any man of her own circle.

“Thank you, Miss Durant; I’ll gladly come, if you are sure I sha’n’t be an interloper.”

“Not at all,” responded the girl. “On the contrary, it would be sadly incomplete without you—”

“Say,” broke in the youngster, “growed-up folks don’t git tings off de tree, does dey?”

Both Constance and the doctor laughed at the obvious fear in the boy’s mind.

“No, Swot,” the man replied; “and I’ve had my Christmas gift from Miss Durant already.”

“Wot wuz dat?”

“Ask her,” replied Dr. Armstrong, as he walked away.

“Wot have youse guv ’im?”

Constance laughed, and blushed still more deeply, as, after a slight pause, she replied, “It’s my turn, Swot, to say ‘rubber’?” This said, she stooped impulsively and kissed the boy’s forehead. “You are a dear, Swot,” she asserted, warmly.

With the mooting of the Christmas tree, the interest in Old Sleuth markedly declined, being succeeded by innumerable surmises of the rapidly convalescing boy as to the probable nature and number of the gifts it would bear. In this he was not discouraged by Miss Durant, who, once the readings were discontinued, brought a bit of fancy-work for occupation.

“Wot’s dat?” he inquired, the first time she produced it.

“A case for handkerchiefs.”

“For me?”

“Did you ever have a handkerchief?”

“Nop. An’ I’d radder have suttin’ else.”

“Can you keep a secret, Swot?”

“Bet youse life.”

“This is for Dr. Armstrong.”

Swot regarded it with new interest. “Youse goin’ to s’prise ’im?”

“Yes.”

“Den youse must sneak it quick w’en he comes in.”

“Haven’t you noticed that he doesn’t come here any longer, Swot?” quietly responded the girl, her head bowed over the work.

“Oin’t dat luck!”

“Why?” asked Constance, looking up in surprise.

“’Cause youse can work on de present,” explained Swot. “Say,” he demanded after a pause, “if dere’s anyting on de tree dat Ise don’t cares for, can Ise give it to de doc?”

“Certainly. Or better still, if you’ll find out what he would like, I’ll let you make him a present.”

“Youse payin’ for it?” anxiously questioned the boy.

“Of course.”

“Dat’s Jim Dandy!”

Miss Durant recurred to this offer twice in the succeeding week, but to her surprise, found Swot’s apparent enthusiasm over the gift had entirely cooled, and his one object was a seeming desire to avoid all discussion of it.

“Don’t you want to give him something, or haven’t you found out what he wants?” she was driven to ask.

“Oh, dat’s all right. Don’t youse tire youself ’bout dat,” was his mysterious reply. Nor could she extract anything more satisfactory.

It was a very different Swot McGarrigle who was helped into Miss Durant’s carriage by the doctor on Christmas eve from the one who had been lifted out at the hospital some six weeks before. The wizened face had filled out into roundness, and the long-promised new clothes, donned for the first time in honor of the event, even more transformed him; so changed him, in fact, that Constance hesitated for an instant in her welcome, in doubt if it were he.

“I have the tree in my own room, because I wanted all the fun to ourselves,” she explained, as she led the way upstairs, “and downstairs we should almost certainly be interrupted by callers, or something. But before you go, Dr. Armstrong, I want you to meet my family, and of course they all want to see Swot.”

It was not a large nor particularly brilliant tree, but to Swot it was everything that was beautiful. At first he was afraid to approach, but after a little Constance persuaded him into a walk around it, and finally tempted him, by an artful mention of what was in one of the larger packages at the base, to treat it more familiarly. Once the ice was broken, the two were quickly seated on the floor, Constance cutting strings, and Swot giving shouts of delight at each new treasure. Presently, in especial joy over some prize, the boy turned to show it to the doctor, to discover that he was standing well back, watching, rather than sharing, in the pleasure of the two; and, as the little chap discovered the aloofness, he leaned over and whispered something to the girl.

“I want to, but can’t get the courage yet,” whispered back Constance. “I don’t know what is the matter with me, Swot,” she added, blushing.

“Like me to guv it to ’im?”

“Oh, will you, Swot?” she eagerly demanded. “It’s the parcel in tissue-paper on my desk over there.”

The waif rose to his feet and trotted to the place indicated. He gave a quick glance back at Miss Durant, and seeing that she was leaning over a bundle, he softly unfolded the tissue-paper, slipped something from his newly possessed breast pocket into the handkerchief-case, and refolded the paper. He crossed the room to where the doctor was standing, and handed him the parcel, with the remark, “Dat’s for youse, from Miss Constance an’ me, doc.” Then scurrying back to the side of the girl, he confided to her, “Ise guv de doc a present, too.”

“What was it?” asked Constance, still not looking up.

“Go an’ ask ’im,” chuckled Swot.

Turned away as she might be, she was not unconscious of the doctor’s movements, and she was somewhat puzzled when, instead of coming to her with thanks, he crossed the room to a bay-window, where he was hidden by the tree from both of them. From that point he still further astonished her by the request,—

“Can you—will you please come here for a moment, Miss Durant?”

Constance rose and walked to where he stood. “I hope you like my gift?” she asked.

“You could have given me nothing I have so wanted—nothing I shall treasure more,” said the man, speaking low and fervently. “But did you realise what this would mean to me?” As he spoke, he raised his hand, and Constance saw, not the handkerchief-case, but a photograph of herself.

“Oh!” she gasped. “Where—I didn’t—that was a picture I gave to Swot. The case is my gift,”

The doctor’s hand dropped, and all the hope and fire went from his eyes. “I beg your pardon for being so foolish, Miss Durant. I—I lost my senses for a moment—or I would have known that you never—that the other was your gift.” He stooped to pick it up from the floor where he had dropped it. “Thank you very deeply for your kindness, and—and try to forget my folly.”

“I—I—couldn’t understand why Swot suddenly—why he—I never dreamed of his doing it,” faltered the girl.

“His and my knowledge of social conventions are about on a par,” responded the man, with a set look to his mouth. “Shall I give it back to him or to you?”

Constance drew a deep breath. “It wasn’t—my—gift—but—but—I don’t mind your keeping it if you wish.”

“You mean—?” cried Dr. Armstrong, incredulously.

“Oh,” said the girl, hurriedly, “isn’t that enough, now? Please, oh, please—wait—for a little.”

The doctor caught her hand and kissed it. “Till death, if you ask it!” he said.

Five minutes later Swot abstracted himself sufficiently from his gifts to peep around the tree and ecstatically inquire,—

“Say, oin’t dis de doisiest Christmas dat ever wuz?”

“Yes,” echoed the two in the bay-window.

“Did youse like me present, doc?”

“Yes,” reiterated the doctor, with something in his voice that gave the word tenfold meaning.

“Ise tought youse ’ud freeze to it, an’ it wuzn’t no sorter good to me.”

Constance laughed happily. “Still, I’m very glad I gave it to you, Swot,” she said, with a glance of the eyes, half shy and half arch, at the man beside her.

“Did youse like Miss Constance’s present too, doc?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor, “especially the one you haven’t seen, Swot.”

“Wot wuz dat?”

“A something called hope—which is the finest thing in the world.”

“No. There is one thing better,” said Miss Durant.

“What is it?”

“Love!” whispered Constance, softly.