The White Linen Nurse

CHAPTER X

So the days passed. And the nights. And more days. And more nights. Ju­ly--Au­gust,--on and on and on.

Stren­uous, nerve-​rack­ing, heart-​break­ing sur­gi­cal days--bro­ken mar­ital­ly on­ly by the pleas­ant, soft-​word­ed greet­ing at the gate, or the prac­ti­cal, home­ly ap­peal of good food cooked with heart as well as hands, or the tin­gling, in­cit­ing mas­cu­line con­scious­ness of there be­ing a wom­an's--blush in the house!

Stren­uous, house-​work­ing, child-​nurs­ing, home-​mak­ing, do­mes­tic days--bro­ken mar­ital­ly on­ly by the jad­ed, harsh word at the gate, the ex­plo­sive crit­icism of food, the dead­en­ing, de­press­ing, fem­inine con­scious­ness of there be­ing a man's--vi­cious tem­per in the house!

Now and again in one big au­to­mo­bile or an­oth­er the White Linen Nurse and the Se­nior Sur­geon rode out to­geth­er, al­ways and for­ev­er with the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl sit­ting be­tween them,--the oth­er wom­an's lit­tle crip­pled girl. Now and again in the late sum­mer af­ter­noons the White Linen Nurse and the Se­nior Sur­geon strolled to­geth­er through the rain­bow-​col­ored gar­den, al­ways and for­ev­er with the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl,--the oth­er wom­an's lit­tle crip­pled girl, tag­ging close be­hind them with her lit­tle sad, clank­ing leg. Now and again in the long sweet sum­mer evenings the White Linen Nurse and the Se­nior Sur­geon sat on the clema­tis-​shad­owed porch to­geth­er, al­ways and for­ev­er with the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl,--the oth­er wom­an's lit­tle crip­pled girl, mock­ing them queru­lous­ly from some vague up­per win­dow.

Now and again across the mu­tu­al­ly ghost-​haunt­ed chasm that sep­arat­ed them flashed the in­con­tro­vert­ible sig­nal of sex and sense, as once when a new In­terne, gross­ly bungling, stepped to the hos­pi­tal win­dow with a col­league to watch the Se­nior Sur­geon's car roll away as usu­al with its two fem­inine pas­sen­gers.

“What makes the Chief so stingy with that big hand­some girl of his?” queried the new In­terne a bit re­sent­ful­ly. “He won't ev­er bring her in­to the hos­pi­tal!--won't ev­er ask any of us young chaps out to his house! And some of us come mighty near to be­ing el­igi­ble, too!--Who's he sav­ing her for, any­way?--A saint?--A mir­acle-​work­er?--A mil­lion­aire medicine man?--They don't ex­ist, you know!”

“I'm sav­ing her for my­self!” snapped the Se­nior Sur­geon most dis­con­cert­ing­ly from the door­way. “She--she hap­pens to be my wife, not my daugh­ter,--thank you!”

When the Se­nior Sur­geon went home that night he car­ried a big bunch of mag­azines and a box of can­dy as large as his head tucked court­ing­ly un­der his arm.

Now and again across the chasm that sep­arat­ed them flashed the in­con­tro­vert­ible sig­nal of mu­tu­al trust and ap­pre­ci­ation, as when once, af­ter a par­tic­ular­ly vi­olent vo­cal out­burst on the Se­nior Sur­geon's part, he sobered down very sud­den­ly and said:

“Rae Mal­gre­gor,--do you re­al­ize that in all the weeks we've been to­geth­er you've nev­er once nagged me about my swear­ing? Not a word,--not a sin­gle word!”

“I'm not very used to--words,” smiled the White Linen Nurse hope­ful­ly. “All I know how to nag with is--is raw eggs! If we could on­ly get those nerves of yours padded just once, sir! The swear­ing would get well of it­self.”

In Au­gust the Se­nior Sur­geon sug­gest­ed sin­cere­ly that the house was much too big for the White Linen Nurse to run all alone, but con­ced­ed equal­ly sin­cere­ly, un­der the White Linen Nurse's ve­he­ment protest, that ser­vants, par­tic­ular­ly new ser­vants did creak con­sid­er­ably round a house, and that maybe “just for the present” at least, un­til he fin­ished his very ner­vous pa­per on brain tu­mors per­haps it would be bet­ter to stay “just by our­selves.”

In Septem­ber the White Linen Nurse want­ed very much to go home to No­va Sco­tia to her sis­ter's wed­ding but the Se­nior Sur­geon was try­ing a very com­pli­cat­ed and wor­ri­some new brace on the Lit­tle Girl's leg and it didn't seem quite kind to go. In Oc­to­ber she planned her trip all over again. She was go­ing to take the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl with her this time. But with their trunks al­ready packed and wait­ing in the hall, the Se­nior Sur­geon came home from the hos­pi­tal with a sep­tic fin­ger--and it didn't seem quite best to leave him.

“Well, how do you like be­ing mar­ried _now?_” asked the Se­nior Sur­geon a bit iron­ical­ly in his work-​room that night, af­ter the White Linen Nurse had stood for an hour with evil-​smelling wash­es, and in­ter­minable ban­dages try­ing to fix that fin­ger the pre­cise, par­tic­ular way that he thought it ought to be fixed. “Well--how do you like--be­ing mar­ried _now?_” he in­sist­ed tren­chant­ly.

“Oh, I like it all right, sir!” said the White Linen Nurse. A lit­tle bit wan­ly this time she smiled her pluck up in­to the Se­nior Sur­geon's ques­tion­ing face. “Oh, I like it all right, sir! Oh, of course, sir,” she con­fid­ed thought­ful­ly--“Oh, of course, sir--it isn't quite as fan­cy as be­ing en­gaged--or quite as free and easy as be­ing--sin­gle. But still--” she ad­mit­ted with des­per­ate hon­esty--“but still there's a sort of--a sort of a com­bi­na­tion im­por­tance and--and com­fort about it, sir, like a--like a vel­vet suit--the sec­ond year, sir.”

“Is that--all?” quizzed the Se­nior Sur­geon blunt­ly.

“That's all--so far, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.

In Novem­ber the White Linen Nurse caught a bit of cold that pulled her down a lit­tle. But the Se­nior Sur­geon didn't no­tice it spe­cial­ly among all the vir­ulent ills he lived and worked with from day to day. And then when the cold dis­ap­peared, In­di­an Sum­mer came like a reek­ing sweat af­ter a chill! And the house _was_ big! And the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl _was_ pret­ty dif­fi­cult to man­age now and then! And the Se­nior Sur­geon, no mat­ter how hard he tried not to, did suc­ceed some­how in cre­at­ing more or less of a dis­tur­bance--at least ev­ery oth­er day or two!

And then sud­den­ly, one balmy gold and crim­son In­di­an Sum­mer morn­ing, stand­ing out on the pi­az­za try­ing to hear what the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl was call­ing from the win­dow and what the Se­nior Sur­geon was call­ing from the gate, the White Linen Nurse fell right down in her tracks, bru­tal­ly, bulk­ily, like a worn-​out horse, and lay as she fell, a hud­dled white heap across the gray pi­az­za.

“Oh, Fa­ther! Come quick! Come quick! Peach has dead­ed her­self!” yelled the Lit­tle Girl's fran­tic voice.

Just with his foot on the step of his car the Se­nior Sur­geon heard the cry and came speed­ing back up the long walk. Al­ready there be­fore him the Lit­tle Girl knelt rain­ing pas­sion­ate, ag­onized kiss­es on her beloved play­mate's ghast­ly white face.

“Leave her alone!” thun­dered the Se­nior Sur­geon. “Leave her alone, I say!”

Bruskly he pushed the Lit­tle Girl aside and knelt to cra­dle his own ear against the White Linen Nurse's heart.

“Oh, it's all right,” he growled, and gath­ered the White Linen Nurse right up in his arms--she was startling­ly lighter than he had sup­posed--and car­ried her up the stairs and put her to bed like a child in the great sump­tu­ous guest-​room, in a great sump­tu­ous nest of all the best linens and blan­kets, with the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl su­per­in­tend­ing the task with many hys­ter­ical sug­ges­tions and sharp stac­ca­to in­ter­rup­tions. For once in his life the Se­nior Sur­geon did not stop to quar­rel with his daugh­ter.

Ral­ly­ing limply from her swoon the White Linen Nurse stared out with hazy per­plex­ity at last from her dim­pling white pil­lows to see the Se­nior Sur­geon stand­ing amaz­ing­ly at the guest-​room bu­reau with a glass and a medicine-​drop­per in his hand, and the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl hang­ing ap­par­ent­ly by her nar­row peaked chin across the foot-​board of the bed.

Gaz­ing down wor­ried­ly at the lace-​ruf­fled sleeve of her night-​dress the White Linen Nurse made her first pub­lic speech to the--world at large.

“Who--put--me--to--bed?” whis­pered the White Linen Nurse.

Ec­stat­ical­ly the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl be­gan to pound her fists on the foot-​board of the bed.

“Fa­ther did!” she cried in un­mis­tak­able tri­umph. “All the lit­tle hooks! All the lit­tle but­tons!--_wasn't_ it cun­ning?”

The Se­nior Sur­geon would hard­ly have been hu­man if he hadn't glanced back sud­den­ly over his shoul­der at the White Linen Nurse's pre­cip­itous­ly chang­ing col­or. Quite ir­re­press­ibly, as he saw the red, red blood come surg­ing home again in­to her cheeks, a lit­tle short chuck­ling laugh es­caped him.

“I guess you'll live--now,” he re­marked dry­ly.

Then be­cause a Se­nior Sur­geon can't stay home on the mere im­pulse of the mo­ment from a great rush­ing hos­pi­tal, just be­cause one mem­ber of his house­hold hap­pens to faint per­fect­ly in­no­cent­ly in the morn­ing, he hur­ried on to his work again. And saved a lit­tle boy, and lost a lit­tle girl, and mend­ed a frac­tured thigh, and eased a gun-​shot wound, and came dash­ing home at noon in one of his thou­sand-​dol­lar hours to feel the White Linen Nurse's pulse and broil her a bit of ten­der­loin steak with his own thou­sand-​dol­lar hands,--and then went dash­ing off again to do one ma­jor op­er­ation or an­oth­er, tele­phoned home once or twice dur­ing the af­ter­noon to make sure that ev­ery­thing was all right, and find­ing that the White Linen Nurse was com­fort­ably up and about again, went sprint­ing off fifty miles some­where on a menin­gi­tis con­sul­ta­tion, and came drag­ging home at last, some­where near mid­night, to a big black house bright­ened on­ly by a sin­gle light in the kitchen where the White Linen Nurse went tip­toe­ing soft­ly from stove to pantry in deft prepa­ra­tion of an ap­pe­tiz­ing sup­per for him.

Quite rough­ly again with­out smile or ap­pre­ci­ation the Se­nior Sur­geon took her by the shoul­ders and turned her out of the kitchen, and start­ed her up the stairs.

“Are you an--id­iot?” he said. “Are you an--im­be­cile?” he came back and called up the stairs to her just as she was dis­ap­pear­ing from the up­per land­ing.

Then up and down, round and round, on and on and on, the Se­nior Sur­geon be­gan sud­den­ly to pace again.

On­ly, for some un­ex­plain­able rea­son to the White Linen Nurse up­stairs, his work-​room didn't seem quite large enough for his pac­ing this night Along the broad pi­az­za she heard his foot­steps creak. Far, far in­to the morn­ing, ly­ing warm and snug in her own lit­tle bed, she heard his foot­steps crack­ling through the wet-​leafed gar­den paths.

Yet the Se­nior Sur­geon didn't look an atom jad­ed or for­lorn when he came down to break­fast the next morn­ing. He had on a brand new gray suit that fit­ted his big, pow­er­ful shoul­ders to per­fec­tion, and the glad glow of his show­er-​bath was still red­den­ing faint­ly in his cheeks as he swung around the cor­ner of the ta­ble and dropped down in­to his place with an odd lit­tle grin on his lips di­rect­ed in­ter­mit­tent­ly to­wards the White Linen Nurse and the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl who al­ready wait­ed him there at ei­ther end of the ta­ble.

“Oh, Fa­ther, isn't it love­ly to have my dar­ling--dar­ling Peach all well again!” beamed the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl with un­usu­al friend­li­ness.

“Speak­ing of your--'dar­ling Peach,'” said the Se­nior Sur­geon quite abrupt­ly. “Speak­ing of your 'dar­ling Peach,'--I'm go­ing to--take her away with me to-​day--for a week or so.”

“Eh?” jumped the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl.

“What? What, sir?” stam­mered the White Linen Nurse.

Quite prosi­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon be­gan to but­ter a piece of toast. But the lit­tle twin­kle around his eyes be­lied in some way the ut­ter prosi­ness of the act.

“For a lit­tle trip,” he con­fid­ed ami­ably. “A lit­tle hol­iday!”

A tri­fle ex­cit­ed­ly the White Linen Nurse laid down her knife and fork and stared at him, blue-​eyed and won­der­ing as a child.

“A hol­iday?” she gasped. “To a--beach, you mean? Would there be a--a roller-​coast­er? I've nev­er seen a roller-​coast­er!”

“Eh?” laughed the Se­nior Sur­geon.

“Oh, I'm go­ing, too! I'm go­ing, too!” piped the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl.

Most jerk­ily the Se­nior Sur­geon pushed back his chair from the ta­ble and swal­lowed half a cup of cof­fee at one sin­gle gulp.

“Go­ing _three_, you mean?” he glow­ered at his lit­tle daugh­ter. “Go­ing _three_?” His com­ment that en­sued was dis­tinct­ly rough as far as dic­tion was con­cerned, but the fa­cial ex­pres­sion of in­ef­fa­ble peace that ac­com­pa­nied it would have made al­most any phrase sound like a bene­dic­tion. “Not by a--damned sight!” beamed the Se­nior Sur­geon. “This lit­tle trip is just for Peach and me!”

“But--sir?” flut­tered the White Linen Nurse. Her face was sud­den­ly pinker than any rose that ev­er bloomed.

With an im­pulse ab­so­lute­ly nov­el to him the Se­nior Sur­geon turned and swung his lit­tle daugh­ter very gen­tly to his shoul­der.

“Your Aunt Agnes is com­ing to stay with _you_--in just about ten min­utes!” he af­firmed. “That's--what's go­ing to hap­pen to _you!_ And maybe there'll be a pony--a white pony.”

“But Peach is so--pleas­ant!” wailed the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl. “Peach is so pleas­ant!” she be­gan to scream and kick.

“So it seems!” growled the Se­nior Sur­geon. “And she's--dy­ing of it!”

Tear­ful­ly the Lit­tle Girl wrig­gled down to the ground, and hob­bled around and thrust her fin­ger-​tip in­to the White Linen Nurse's blushi­est cheek.

“I don't want--Peach--to--die,” she ad­mit­ted wor­ried­ly. “But I don't want any­body to take her away!”

“The pony is--very white,” urged the Se­nior Sur­geon with a diplo­ma­cy quite alien to him.

Abrupt­ly the Lit­tle Girl turned and faced him. “What col­or is Aunt Agnes?” she asked ve­he­ment­ly.

“Aunt Agnes is--pret­ty white, too,” at­test­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon.

With the faintest pos­si­ble tinge of su­per­cil­ious­ness the Lit­tle Girl lift­ed her sharp chin a tri­fle high­er.

“If it's just a per­fect­ly plain white pony,” she said, “I'd rather have Peach. But if it's a white pony with black blots on it, and if it can pull a lit­tle cart, and if I can whip it with a lit­tle switch, and if it will eat sug­ar-​lumps out of my hand,--and if its name is--is--'Beau­ti­ful Pret­ty-​Thing'--”

“Its name has al­ways been--'Beau­ti­ful Pret­ty-​Thing,' I'm quite sure!” in­sist­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon. In­ad­ver­tent­ly as he spoke he reached out and put a hand very light­ly on the White Linen Nurse's shoul­der.

In­stant­ly in­to the Lit­tle Girl's sus­pi­cious face flushed a fu­ri­ous­ly un­con­trol­lable flame of jeal­ousy and re­sent­ment. Mad­ly she turned up­on her fa­ther.

“You're a liar!” she screamed. “There _is_ no white pony! You're a rob­ber! You're a--a--drunk! You shan't have my dar­ling Peach!” And threw her­self fren­zied­ly in­to the White Linen Nurse's lap.

Im­pa­tient­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon dis­en­tan­gled the lit­tle cling­ing arms, and rais­ing the White Linen Nurse to her feet pushed her em­phat­ical­ly to­wards the hall.

“Go to my work-​room,” he said. “Quick­ly! I want to talk with you!”

A mo­ment lat­er he joined her there, and shut and locked the door be­hind him. The pre­vi­ous night's loss of sleep showed plain­ly in his face now, and the hos­pi­tal strain of the day be­fore, and of the day be­fore that, and of the day be­fore _that_.

Heav­ily, mood­ily, he crossed the room and threw him­self down in his desk chair with the White Linen Nurse still stand­ing be­fore him as though she were noth­ing but a--white linen nurse. All the splen­dor was sud­den­ly gone from him, all the ra­di­ance, all the ex­ul­tant pur­pose.

“Well, Rae Mal­gre­gor,” he grinned mirth­less­ly. “The lit­tle kid is right, though I cer­tain­ly don't know where she got her in­for­ma­tion. I _am_ a Liar. The pony's name is not yet 'Beau­ti­ful Pret­ty-​Thing'! I _am_ a--Drunk. I was drunk most of June! I _am_ a Rob­ber! I have tak­en you out of your youth--and the love-​chances of your youth,--and shut you up here in this great, gloomy old house of mine--to be my slave--and my child's slave--and--”

“Pouf!” said the White Linen Nurse. “It would seem--sil­ly--now, sir,--to mar­ry a boy!”

“And I've been a beast to you!” per­sist­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon. “From the very first day you be­longed to me I've been a--beast to you,--vent­ing bru­tal­ly on your youth, on your sweet­ness, on your pa­tience,--all the work, the wor­ry, the wear and tear, the ab­nor­mal strain and stress of my dis­or­dered days--and years,--and I've let my lit­tle girl vent al­so on you all the pang and pain of _her_ dis­or­dered days! And be­cause in this great, gloomy, rack­ety house it seemed sud­den­ly like a mir­acle from heav­en to have ser­vice that was soft-​foot­ed, gen­tle-​hand­ed, pleas­ant-​heart­ed, I've let you shoul­der all the hideous drudgery,--the care,--one hor­rid home­ly task af­ter an­oth­er pil­ing up-​up-​up--till you dropped in your tracks yes­ter­day--still smil­ing!”

“But I got a good deal out of it, even so, sir!” protest­ed the White Linen Nurse. “See, sir!” she smiled. “I've got re­al lines in my face--now--like oth­er wom­en! I'm not a doll any more! I'm not a--”

“Yes!” groaned the Se­nior Sur­geon. “And I might just as kind­ly have carved those lines with my knife! But I was go­ing to make it all up to you to-​day!” he hur­ried. “I swear I was! Even in one short lit­tle week I could have done it! You wouldn't have known me! I was go­ing to take you away,--just you and me! I would have been a Saint! I swear I would! I would have giv­en you such a great, won­der­ful, child-​heart­ed hol­iday--as you nev­er dreamed of in all your un­selfish life! A hol­iday all _you--you--you!_ You could have--dug in the sand if you'd want­ed to! Gad! I'd have dug in the sand--if you'd want­ed me to! And now it's all gone from me, all the will, all the sheer pos­itive self-​as­sur­ance that I could have car­ried the thing through--ab­so­lute­ly self­less­ly. That lit­tle girl's sneer­ing taunt? The ghost of her moth­er--in that taunt? God! When any­body knocks you just in your de­cen­cy it doesn't harm you spe­cial­ly! But when they knock you in your Want­ing-​To-​Be-​De­cent it--it un­der­mines you some­where. I don't know ex­act­ly how! I'm noth­ing but a man again--now, just a plain, ev­ery day, greedy, cov­etous, phys­ical man--on the edge of a hol­iday, the first clean hol­iday in twen­ty years,--that he no longer dares to take!”

A lit­tle sway­ing­ly the White Linen Nurse shift­ed her stand­ing weight from one foot to the oth­er.

“I'm sor­ry, sir!” said the White Linen Nurse. “I'd like to have seen a roller-​coast­er, sir!”

Just for an in­stant a gleam of laugh­ter went bright­en­ing across the Se­nior Sur­geon's brood­ing face, and was gone again.

“Rae Mal­gre­gor, come here!” he or­dered quite sharply.

Very soft­ly, very glid­ing­ly, like the foot­fall of a per­son who has nev­er known heels, the White Linen Nurse came for­ward swift­ly and slid­ing in cau­tious­ly be­tween the Se­nior Sur­geon and his desk, stood there with her back braced against the desk, her fin­gers stray­ing idly up and down the edges of the desk, star­ing up in­to his face all readi­ness, all at­ten­tion, like a sol­dier wait­ing fur­ther or­ders.

So near was she that he could al­most hear the vel­vet heart-​throb of her,--the lit­tle flut­ter­ing swal­low,--yet by some strange, per­sis­tent aloof­ness of her, some de­ter­mi­nate vir­gin­ity, not a fold of her gown, not an edge, not a thread, seemed to even so much as graze his knee, seemed to even so much as shad­ow his hand,--lest it short-​cir­cuit there­by the seething cur­rents of their vari­ant emo­tions.

With ex­traor­di­nary in­tent­ness for a mo­ment the Se­nior Sur­geon sat star­ing in­to the girl's eyes, the blue, blue eyes too full of child­ish ques­tion­ing yet to flinch with ei­ther con­scious­ness or em­bar­rass­ment.

“Af­ter all, Rae Mal­gre­gor,” he smiled at last, faint­ly--“Af­ter all, Rae Mal­gre­gor,--Heav­en knows when I shall ev­er get--an­oth­er hol­iday!”

“Yes, sir?” said the White Linen Nurse.

With ap­par­ent ir­rel­evance he reached for his ivory pa­per-​cut­ter and be­gan bend­ing it dan­ger­ous­ly be­tween his adept fin­gers.

“How long have you been with me, Rae Mal­gre­gor?” he asked quite abrupt­ly.

“Four months--ac­tu­al­ly with you, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.

“Do you hap­pen to re­mem­ber the ex­act phras­ing of my--pro­pos­al of mar­riage to you?” he asked shrewd­ly.

“Oh, yes, sir!” said the White Linen Nurse. “You called it 'gen­er­al heart­work for a fam­ily of two'!”

A lit­tle grim­ly be­fore her steady gaze the Se­nior Sur­geon's own eyes fell, and ral­lied again al­most in­stant­ly with a gaze as even and di­rect as hers.

“Well,” he smiled. “Through the whole four months I seem to have kept my part of the con­tract all right--and held you mere­ly as a--drudge in my home. Have you then de­cid­ed, once and for all time,--whether you are go­ing to stay on with us--or whether you will 'give no­tice' as oth­er drudges have done?”

With a lit­tle back­ward droop of one shoul­der the White Linen Nurse be­gan to fin­ger ner­vous­ly at the desk be­hind her, and turn­ing half way round as though to es­ti­mate what dam­age she was do­ing, ex­posed thus mere­ly the pro­file of her pink face, of her white throat, to the Se­nior Sur­geon's ques­tion­ing eyes.

“I shall nev­er--give no­tice, sir!” flut­tered the white throat.

“Are you per­fect­ly sure?” in­sist­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon.

The pink in the White Linen Nurse's pro­filed cheek deep­ened a lit­tle.

“Per­fect­ly sure, sir!” at­test­ed the carmine lips.

Like the crack of a pis­tol the Se­nior Sur­geon snapped the ivory pa­per cut­ter in two.

“All right then!” he said. “Rae Mal­gre­gor, look at me! Don't take your eyes from mine, I say! Rae Mal­gre­gor, if I should de­cide in my own mind, here and now, that it was best for you--as well as for me--that you should come away with me now--for this week,--not as my guest as I had planned,--but as my wife,--even if you were not quite ready for it in your heart,--even if you were not yet re­mote­ly ready for it,--would you come be­cause I told you to come?”

Heav­ily un­der her white, white eye­lids, heav­ily un­der her black, black lash­es, the girl's eyes strug­gled up to meet his own.

“Yes, sir,” whis­pered the White Linen Nurse.

Abrupt­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon pushed back his chair from the desk, and stood up. The im­por­tant de­ci­sion once made, no fur­ther fi­ness­ing of words seemed ei­ther nec­es­sary or dig­ni­fied to him.

“Go and pack your suit-​case quick­ly then!” he or­dered. “I want to get away from here with­in half an hour!”

But be­fore the girl had half crossed the room he called to her sud­den­ly, his whole bear­ing and man­ner mirac­ulous­ly changed, and his face in that mo­ment as hag­gard as if a whole life­time's strug­gle was packed in­to it.

“Rae Mal­gre­gor,” he drawled mock­ing­ly. “This thing shall be--barter way through to the end,--with the cred­it al­ways on your side of the ac­count. In ex­change for the gift--of your­self--your--won­der­ful self--and the trust that goes with it, I will give you,--God help me,--the ugli­est thing in my life. And God knows I have bro­ken faith with my­self once or twice but--nev­er have I bro­ken my word to an­oth­er! From now on,--in to­ken of your trust in me,--for what­ev­er the bit­ter gift is worth to you,--as long as you stay with me,--my Junes shall be yours--to do with--as you please!”

“What, sir?” gasped the White Linen Nurse. “_What_, sir?”

Soft­ly, al­most stealthi­ly, she was half way back across the room to him, when she stopped sud­den­ly and threw out her arms with a ges­ture of ap­peal and de­fi­ance.

“All the same, sir!” she cried pas­sion­ate­ly, “all the same, sir,--the place is too hard for the small pay I get! Oh, I will do what I promised!” she at­test­ed with in­creas­ing pas­sion. “I will nev­er leave you! And I will moth­er your lit­tle girl! And I will ser­vant your big house! And I will go with you wher­ev­er you say! And I will be to you what­ev­er you wish! And I will nev­er flinch from any hard­ship you im­pose on me--nor whine over any pain,--on and on and on--all my days--all my years--till I drop in my tracks again and--die--as you say 'still smil­ing'! All the same!” she re­it­er­at­ed wild­ly, “the place is too hard! It al­ways was too hard! It al­ways will be too hard--for such small pay!”

“For such small pay?” gasped the Se­nior Sur­geon.

Around his heart a hor­rid clam­my chill be­gan to set­tle. Sick­en­ing­ly through his brain a dozen re­cent fi­nan­cial trans­ac­tions be­gan to re­hearse them­selves.

“You mean, Miss Mal­gre­gor,” he said a bit bro­ken­ly. “You mean--that I--haven't been gen­er­ous enough with you?”

“Yes, sir,” fal­tered the White Linen Nurse.

All the storm and pas­sion died sud­den­ly from her, leav­ing her just a fright­ened girl again, flush­ing pink-​white, pink-​white, pink-​white, be­fore the Se­nior Sur­geon's scathing stare. One step, two steps, three, she ad­vanced to­wards him.

“Oh, I mean, sir,” she whis­pered, “oh, I mean, sir,--that I'm just an or­di­nary, ig­no­rant coun­try girl and you--are fur­ther above me than the moon from the sea! I couldn't ex­pect you to--love me, sir! I couldn't even dream of your lov­ing me! _But I do think you might like me just a lit­tle bit with your heart!_”

“What?” flushed the Se­nior Sur­geon. “_What?_”

Whack­et­ty-​bang against the win­dow pane sound­ed the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl's knuck­led fists! Dark­ly against the win­dow pane squashed the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl's star­ing face.

“Fa­ther!” screamed the shrill voice. “Fa­ther! There's a white la­dy here with two black ladies wash­ing the break­fast dish­es! Is it Aunt Agnes?”

With a to­tal­ly un­ex­pect­ed laugh, with a to­tal­ly un­ex­pect­ed de­sire to laugh, the Se­nior Sur­geon strode across the room and un­locked his door. Even then his lips against the White Linen Nurse's ear made just a whis­per, not a kiss.

“God bless you!--_hur­ry!_” he said. “And let's get out of here be­fore any tele­phone mes­sage catch­es me!”

Then al­most calm­ly he walked out on the pi­az­za, and greet­ed his sis­ter-​in-​law.

“Hel­lo, Agnes!” he said.

“Hel­lo, your­self!” smiled his sis­ter-​in-​law.

“How's ev­ery­thing?” he en­quired po­lite­ly.

“How's ev­ery­thing with you?” par­ried his sis­ter-​in-​law.

Idly for a few mo­ments the Se­nior Sur­geon threw out stray crumbs of thought to feed the con­ver­sa­tion, while smil­ing­ly all the while from her lux­uri­ant East In­di­an chair his sis­ter-​in-​law sat study­ing the gen­er­al sit­ua­tion. The Se­nior Sur­geon's sis­ter-​in-​law was al­ways study­ing some­thing. Last year it was ar­chae­ol­ogy,--the year be­fore, bas­ketry,--this year it hap­pened to be eu­gen­ics, or some­thing fun­ny like that,--next year again it might be book-​bind­ing.

“So you and your pink and white shep­herdess are go­ing off on a lit­tle trip to­geth­er?” she queried ban­ter­ing­ly. “The girl's a dar­ling, Lendi­cott! I haven't had as much sport in a long time as I had that af­ter­noon last June when I came in my best call­ing-​clothes and--helped her paint the kitchen wood­work! And I had come pre­pared to be a bit nasty, Lendi­cott! In all hon­esty, Lendi­cott, I might just as well 'fess up that I had come pre­pared to be just a lit­tle bit nasty!”

“She seems to have a way,” smiled the Se­nior Sur­geon, “she seems to have a way of dis­arm­ing peo­ple's un­pleas­ant in­ten­tions.”

A tri­fle quizzi­cal­ly for an in­stant the wom­an turned her face to the Se­nior Sur­geon's. It was a world­ly face, a cold-​fea­tured, ab­so­lute­ly world­ly face, with a sur­pris­ing­ly hu­mor­ous mouth that warmed her na­ture just about as cheer ful­ly, and just about as ef­fec­tu­al­ly, as one open fire­place warms a whole house. Nev­er­the­less one of­ten achieved much com­fort by keep­ing close to “Aunt Agnes's” hu­mor­ous mouth, for Aunt Agnes knew a thing or two,--Aunt Agnes did,--and the things that she made a point of know­ing were con­sci­en­tious­ly ami­able.

“Why, Lendi­cott Faber,” she ral­lied him now. “Why, you're as ner­vous as a school-​boy! Why, I be­lieve--I be­lieve that you're go­ing court­ing!”

More op­por­tune­ly than any man could have dared to hope, the White Linen Nurse ap­peared sud­den­ly on the scene in her lit­tle blue serge wed­ding-​suit with her trav­el­ing-​case in her hand. With a gasp of re­lief the Se­nior Sur­geon took her case and his own and went on down the path to his car and his chauf­feur leav­ing the two wom­en tem­porar­ily alone.

When he re­turned to the pi­az­za the Wom­an-​of-​the-​World and the Girl-​not-​at-​all-​of-​the-​World were bid­ding each oth­er a re­al­ly af­fec­tion­ate good-​by, and the wom­an's face looked sud­den­ly just a lit­tle bit old but the girl's cheeks were most in­or­di­nate­ly bloom­ing.

In un­mis­tak­able friend­li­ness his sis­ter-​in-​law ex­tend­ed her hand to him.

“Good-​by, Lendi­cott, old man!” she said. “And good luck to you!” A lit­tle sly­ly out of her shrewd gray eyes, she glanced up side­ways at him. “You've got the dev­il's own tem­per, Lendi­cott dear,” she teased, “and two or three oth­er vices prob­ably, and if ru­mor speaks the truth you've run a-​muck more than once in your life,--but there's one thing I will say for you,--though it prove you a dear Stupid: you nev­er were over-​quick to sus­pect that any wom­an could pos­si­bly be in love with you!”

“To what wom­an do you par­tic­ular­ly re­fer?” mocked the Se­nior Sur­geon im­pa­tient­ly.

Quite brazen­ly to her own heart which nev­er yet ap­par­ent­ly had stirred the laces that en­shrined it, his sis­ter-​in-​law point­ed with per­sis­tent ban­ter.

“Maybe I re­fer to--my­self,” she laughed, “and maybe to the on­ly--oth­er la­dy present!”

“Oh!” gasped the White Linen Nurse.

“You do me much hon­or, Agnes,” bowed the Se­nior Sur­geon. Quite res­olute­ly he held his gaze from fol­low­ing the White Linen Nurse's quick­ly avert­ed face.

A lit­tle odd­ly for an in­stant the old­er wom­an's glance hung on his. “More hon­or per­haps than you think, Lendi­cott Faber!” she said, and kept right on smil­ing.

“Eh?” jerked the Se­nior Sur­geon. Restive­ly he turned to the White Linen Nurse.

Very flush­ing­ly on the steps the White Linen Nurse knelt ar­gu­ing with the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl.

“Your fa­ther and I are--go­ing away,” she plead­ed. “Won't you--please--kiss us good-​by?”

“I've on­ly got one kiss,” sulked the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl.

“Give it to your--fa­ther!” plead­ed the White Linen Nurse.

Amaz­ing­ly all in a sec­ond the ug­li­ness van­ished from the lit­tle face. Dartling­ly like a bird the Child swooped down and plant­ed one large round kiss on the Se­nior Sur­geon's as­ton­ished boot.

“Beau­ti­ful Fa­ther!” she cried, “I kiss your feet!”

Abrupt­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon plunged from the step and start­ed down the walk. His cheek-​bones were quite crim­son.

Two or three rods be­hind him the White Linen Nurse fol­lowed fal­ter­ing­ly. Once she stopped to pick up a tiny stick or a stone. And once she dal­lied to straight­en out a snarled spray of red and brown wood­bine.

Miss­ing the sound or the shad­ow of her the Se­nior Sur­geon turned sud­den­ly to wait. So star­tled was she by his in­tent­ness, so flus­tered, so af­fright­ed, that just for an in­stant the Se­nior Sur­geon thought that she was go­ing to wheel in her tracks and bolt mad­ly back to the house. Then quite un­ex­pect­ed­ly she gave an odd, muf­fled lit­tle cry, and ran swift­ly to him like a child, and slipped her bare hand trust­ing­ly in­to his. And they went on to­geth­er to the car.

With his foot al­ready half lift­ed to the step the Se­nior Sur­geon turned abrupt­ly around and lift­ed his hat and stood star­ing back bare­head­ed for some un­ex­plain­able rea­son at the two silent fig­ures on the pi­az­za.

“Rae,” he said per­plexed­ly, “Rae, I don't seem to know just why--but some­how I'd like to have you kiss your hand to Aunt Agnes!”

Obe­di­ent­ly the White Linen Nurse with­drew her fin­gers from his and waft­ed two kiss­es, one to “Aunt Agnes” and one to the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl.

Then the White Linen Nurse and the Se­nior Sur­geon climbed up in­to the ton­neau of the car where they had nev­er, nev­er sat alone be­fore, and the Se­nior Sur­geon gave a curt or­der to his man and the big car start­ed off again in­to--in­ter­minable spaces.

Mute­ly with­out a word, with­out a glance pass­ing be­tween them the Se­nior Sur­geon held out his hand to her once more, as though the ab­sence of her hand in his was sud­den­ly a lone­some­ness not to be en­dured again while life last­ed.

Whizz--whizz--whizz--whirr--whirr--whirr the rib­bony road be­gan to roll up again on that hid­den spool un­der the car.

When the chauf­feur's mind seemed suf­fi­cient­ly ab­sorbed in speed and sound the Se­nior Sur­geon bent down a lit­tle mock­ing­ly and mum­bled his lips inar­tic­ulate­ly at the White Linen Nurse.

“See!” he laughed. “I've got a text, too, to keep my courage up! Of course you look like an an­gel!” he teased clos­er and clos­er to her flam­ing face. “But all the time to my­self--to re­as­sure my­self--I just keep say­ing--' Bah! She 's noth­ing but a Wom­an--noth­ing but a Wom­an--noth­ing but a Wom­an'!”

With­in the Se­nior Sur­geon's warm, firm grasp the White Linen Nurse's calm hand quick­ened sud­den­ly like a bud forced pre­cip­itous­ly in­to full bloom.

“Oh, don't--talk, sir,” she whis­pered. “Oh, don't talk, sir! Just--lis­ten!”

“Lis­ten? Lis­ten to what?” laughed the Se­nior Sur­geon.

From un­der the heavy lash­es that shad­owed the flam­ing cheeks the Soul of the Girl who was to be his peered up at the Soul of the Man who was to be hers,--_and salut­ed what she saw!_

“Oh, my heart, sir!” whis­pered the White Linen Nurse. “Oh, my heart! My heart! my _heart_!”

THE END

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