Black is White 24

Black is White 24

Just before dinner she came up to see him. He was still shivering.

So was Mr Riggs, for that matter, but Mr Riggs failed to shiver

convincingly and did not receive the treatment he desired. Their

unexpected visitor felt the pulse and forehead of the sick man, uttered

a husky little cry of dismay, and announced that he had a fever.

Whereupon Mr Dawes said, rather shamefacedly, that he would be all right

in the morning and that it was nothing at all.

 

“We will have the doctor at once, Mr Dawes,” said she, and instructed Mr

Riggs to call Jones.

 

“I don’t want a doctor,” said Mr Dawes stoutly.

 

“I know you don’t,” said she, with her rarest smile; “but I _do_, you

see.”

 

“They’re no good,” said Mr Dawes.

 

“Better have one,” advised Mr Riggs with sudden solemnity.

 

“Never had one in my life,” said Mr Dawes. “Don’t believe in ‘em. I’ll

take a couple of stiff drinks before I go to bed and------”

 

“But you’ve gone to bed, you old dear,” cried she, stroking his burning

hand gently.

 

He was too astonished to say a word.

 

“Jumping Jees----” began Mr Riggs, completely staggered. “I mean, what

doctor, Mrs Brood?”

 

“Jones will know. Now, Mr Dawes, you must do just as I tell you to do.

You are nothing but a child, you know. If------”

 

“Hey, Joe!” called out the sick man desperately, but his comrade was

gone. “Don’t let him call a--doctor, Mrs Brood; please don’t!” he

implored.

 

She sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his hand between her soft,

cool palms, and smiled at him so tenderly that he stared for a moment in

utter bewilderment and then gulped mightily. “Hush!” she said.

 

“I--I don’t want to be sick here, bothering you and upsetting

everything------” he blubbered.

 

“We will have you up and about in a day or two,” she said.

 

“But it’s such an infernal nuisance. You oughtn’t to be sitting here,

either. It may be catching.”

 

“Nonsense! I’m not afraid.”

 

“It’s--it’s mighty good of you,” he muttered, his eyes blinking.

 

“What are friends for, Mr Dawes, if they can’t be depended upon in times

of sickness?”

 

“Friends?” he gasped.

 

“Certainly. Am I not your friend?”

 

“I--I--well, by gosh!” he exploded. “I--I must tell this to Joe.

He’ll--I beg your pardon, I guess I’m a little flighty. Maybe I’m worse

than I think. Delirious or something like that. Say, you don’t think

it’s--it’s serious, do you?”

 

“Of course not. A heavy cold, that’s all. The doctor will break it up

immediately.”

 

“Maybe it’s the grippe, eh?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“What’s my temperature?”

 

“You mustn’t worry, Mr Dawes. It’s all right.”

 

He was silent for a moment, steadfastly regarding the hand that stroked

his wrinkled old paw so gently.

 

“If--if it should turn out to be pneumonia or lung fever, I wish you

wouldn’t let on to Joe,” said he anxiously. “It would worry him almost

to death. He’s not very strong, you see. Nothing like me. I’m as strong

as a bull. Never been sick in my------”

 

“I know,” she said quietly. “He isn’t half so strong as you, Mr Dawes.

You are so strong you will be able to throw off this cold in a jiffy, as

Jones would say. It won’t amount to anything.”

 

“If I get much worse you’d better send me to a hospital. Awful nuisance

having a sick man about the place. Spoils everything. Don’t hesitate

about sending me off, Mrs Brood. I wouldn’t be a trouble to you or Jim

for------”

 

“You poor old dear! You shall stay right where you are, no matter what

comes to pass, and I shall take charge of you myself.”

 

“You?” She nodded her head briskly. “Well, by jiggers, I--I don’t know

what Joe’ll say when I tell him this. Blast him; I’ll bet my head he

calls me a liar. If he does, blast him, I’ll oh, I beg your pardon! I

don’t seem to be able to get over the habit of------”

 

“Here is Mr Riggs--and my husband,” she interrupted, as the door opened

and the two men strode into the room. “Is Jones telephoning?”

 

“Yes,” said Brood. “Why, what’s gone wrong, old man?”

 

“It’s all my fault,” groaned Mr Riggs, sitting down heavily on the

opposite side of the bed. “I let him go out without his overcoat. He’s

not a strong man, Jim. Least breath of air goes right through-----”

 

“See here, Riggs, you know better than that,” roared the sick man

wrathfully. “I can stand more------”

 

“There, there!” cried Mrs Brood reprovingly. “It isn’t fair to quarrel

with Mr Riggs. He can’t very well abuse you in return, Mr Dawes, can

he?”

 

“You may be on your death-bed,” said Mr Riggs mournfully, as if that

were reason enough for not abusing him.

 

“Nonsense,” said Brood; but it was an anxious look that he shot at

Yvonne. Mr Dawes’s face was fiery hot.

 

“I shall come back to see you immediately after dinner, Mr Dawes,” said

she, and again stroked his hand.

 

The two old men stared after her rather blankly as she left the room.

They couldn’t believe their ears.

 

“She says she’ll look after me herself,” murmured Mr Dawes hazily.

Mr Riggs tucked the covers about his chin. “Don’t do that, Joe! Leave

things alone, darn you. She fixed ‘em as they ought to be.” Mr Riggs

obediently undid his work. “That’s right. Now don’t you do anything

without askin’ her, d’ye hear?”

 

“I was only trying to make you------”

 

“Well, don’t do it. Leave everything to her.” The upshot of it all was

that Mr Dawes came near to dying. Pneumonia set in at once, and for

many days he fought what appeared to be a losing fight. Then came the

splendid days of convalescence, the happiest days of his life. The

amazing Mrs Brood did “look after him.” Nurses there were, of course,

and doctors in consultation, but it was the much-berated mistress of the

house who “pulled him through,” as he afterward and always declared in

acrimonious disputes with Mr Riggs who, while secretly blessing the wife

of Brood, could not be driven into an open admission that she had

done “anything more than anybody else would have done under the

circumstances,”--and not “half as much, for that matter, as he could have

done had he been given a chance.”

 

It may be well to observe here that Mr Riggs was of no earthly use

whatever during the trying days: Indeed, he gave up hope the instant

the doctor said “pneumonia,” and went about the house saying “My God” to

himself and everybody else in sepulchral whispers, all the while urging

Heaven to “please do something.” He was too pathetic for words.

 

A new and totally unsuspected element in Yvonne’s make-up came to light

at this troublous period. She forsook many pleasures, many comforts in

her eagerness to help the suffering old man who, she must have known, in

his heart had long despised her. She did not interfere with the nurses,

yet made herself so indispensable to old Mr Dawes in the capacity of

“visiting angel” that his heart overflowed with gratitude and love.

Even when death hung directly above his almost sightless eyes he saw

her smile of encouragement in the shadows, and his spirit responded with

what might justly have been called the battle-cry of life.

 

To Brood this new side to Yvonne’s far from understandable character

was most gratifying. Seeing her in the rôle of good Samaritan was not

so surprising to him as the real, unaffected sincerity with which she

ministered to the wants of the querulous old man.

 

Even the nurses, habitually opposed to the good offices of “the family,”

were won over by this woman whose unparalleled sweetness levelled them

into a condition of respect and love that surprised not only themselves

but the doctors. They were quite docile from the start, and seldom, if

ever, spoke of Mr Dawes as “the patient” or of his state as “the case.”

They got into the habit of alluding to him as the “dear old man,” and

somehow envied each other the hours “on duty.” They were never sour.

 

And so, when it came time for Mr Dawes to thank the Lord for his escape,

he refused to commit himself to anything so ridiculous! He even went so

far as to declare that the doctor had nothing to do with it, a statement

which rather staggered the nurses.

 

For hours Yvonne read to the blissful old chap. Sometimes she read to

him in French, again in Russian, and occasionally in German. It was all

one to him. He did not understand a word of it, but he was happy. He

felt surprisingly young.

 

She gave up a month to him and he was prepared to give up his life to

her. To his utter amazement, however, she did not exact anything so

valuable as that. Indeed, when his recovery was quite complete, she

calmly forgot his existence and he sank back into the oblivion from

which calamity had dragged him; sank back to the unhappy level of

Mr Riggs and all the others who failed to interest her; and there he

dreamed of exalted days when she wanted him to live, contrasting them

with these days in which he might just as well be dead for all she

seemed to care! He was one of the “old men” again.