"Darling, I know that," said Emily, her eyes aglow with love and a mysterious sorrow. So they left her.
Johnny took them home to the flat. Scarcely a word was said on the way. Once in the mirror he saw Nan's silent tears. He wanted to say, "Don't blame yourself for Emily's heart!" but his tongue felt tied.
At the flat, Dorothy said there was nothing, really, that he could do and Nan said yearningly, "Dick will be here. Dick can take us to the hospital tomorrow."
So Johnny left them. He rode around aimlessly for a long time. Felt useless, worried. He decided, by some uneasiness in his bones, that he must stay in town overnight, so he found a phone to call liis mother.
"John? Oh, good! We were about to go to the Miller's for dinner and there was an urgent message. The Schmidt Memorial Hospital wants you to call them, right away."
"Then I better do it," said Johnny, so surprised and frightened that he hung up without telling her anything.
The hospital said that Miss Emily Padgett urgently requested Mr. John Sims to come see her this evening. Visiting hours from seven to eight. "Tell her I'll be there."
Johnny hung up, rubbed his face. Stood in the phone booth.
His mother and father would have gone out. Well, he'd tell them in the morning where Emily was and how. He would tell nobody anything tonight. He knew that when he, Johnny Sims, old friend and neighbor, got to the hospital at seven o'clock, he was going to be put right smack in the middle of whatever trouble there was going to be.
A little before seven, in Emily's flat, Nan flew to take the phone. "Dick! Where are you, darling?"
"Just off the plane, love. Shall I come right up?"
"Oh, please! Oh, Dick, Aunt Emily is in the hospital."
"Hospital! Wliere?"
"Right here! The Schmidt Memorial. She flew back. Oh, Dick, I didn't call you—but she was so upset . . ."
"Wait a minute. Your aunt is back! In town!"
"Yes. Yes, she is. I talked to her in Paris. When I told her about us, she said she'd fly home right away."
"But why, dearest? You say she was upset?"
"Yes, she was. She said I wasn't to m-marry you. I must wait ... I don't know why. We can't talk to her now. It's her heart. We can't even see her again until tomorrow."
"Is it serious?"
"The doctor doesn't think so. But . . ."
"Well, then . . ." he said soothingly. "Nothing to worry about. I'll be there just as soon as I can."
Nan put the phone down. "You see!" she said to Dorothy. "He doesn't know why she should be upset!"
Dorothy said, in a moment, "Maybe we'll get it straightened out tomorrow." .-^ --
CHAPTER 3
Johnny Sims entered the hospital on the stroke of seven; nobody asked him his business. He turned right on an inner corridor and walked as far as he could passing several wings, until he came to the last wing of all. He turned left, and then, looking ahead of him, realized that a door at the far end of this last wing stood open. He could have come in that way, directly from the parking lot. Well, he hadn't. No matter.
Emily's room was the second from the end of the wing.
She was sitting a little higher; she looked a little better.
"Johnny, dear, close the door." He closed it. "Sit down. I shouldn't talk too long."
He pulled the straight chair close to the bed and leaned his head into the light. "Take it easy. I've got good ears."
"You've known her so long. You're fond of Nan,"
"True," he agreed.
"Will you help me, Johnny?''
"Certainly."
"I don't know what to do."
Now he thought he could see her heart struggling in her breast. He wanted to ease it. "Just tell me," he urged quietly.
"First, promise you won't tell Nan without permission."
He winced inside, but he had to agree. "I promise. Go ahead."
"You do keep your word." Emily made this a statement.
"I do," he agreed.
She smiled a little. The smile was for him, affectionate and trusting. And absolutely binding upon him. "I can't . . . go anywhere . . . just now ..." she began again with difficulty. "And it can't be my decision. It must be his. So you must go."
Johnny said nothing. He couldn't yet understand.
"The very worst thing that could have happened , . ." Now her head began to turn to and fro upon the pillow. Her heart labored, as he thought he could tell. "How could I imagine!"
"Don't put any steam in it," said Johnny gently. "Just tell me what I must do and I will go and do it."
"Yes," said Emily gratefully. Her head stopped that desperate wagging motion. "But first you have to know. Nan isn't my brother Henry's child. I never had a brother Henry. She's the child of a brother of mine whose name she's never heard. You see, I changed all the names. I made up lies. I had to."
"Go ahead," said Johnny quietly.
"Nan's father is in prison. He was convicted of murder seventeen years ago."
Johnny kept smiling. He was surprised, but not too shocked. He had expected something as bad as this.
"They said he murdered Nan's mother . . ,'' Emily's voice sank to a whisper. "Poor Christy McCauley."
Johnny swallowed.
"My brother Clin to is in San Quentin, Johnny. I want you to see him. Ask him what we aie to do. He must decide."
"I see. I will," Johnny said soothingly.
"No, you don't see," said Emily impatiently. "He did not kill Christy. He was convicted but he wasn't guilty. The baby ... He and I didn't see why the baby shoiild suffer at all. It was bad enough that he had to lose his wife and go to prison for what he hadn't done. Why should there be bad added to bad? Why should the baby grow up in the shadow of such a terrible thing? People believing that her father killed her mother. So I took the baby. I made them give me the baby. I had an agreement with the old man. And I changed my name and her name and Dorothy's name, too. And I was never going to tell her. And all these seventeen years she hasn't known and none of it has ever touched her or hurt her."
"She's had wonderful loving care," Johnny said softly.
"Yes," said Emily and plucked her sheet.
"Now, you feel—if she is to marry . . . ?" he began. ...
"No, no, noT Emily gasped. "Don't try to guess, Jolmny. It only takes longer."
So he waited.
"My brother's name is Clinton McCauley," she said in a moment. "I've always gone to -see him once eyery month. He . . . loves all the news of Nan. But now . . ." She gathered strength and went on. "Christy was killed in the Bartee's house in Hestia. You see, she was related."
Johnny took in air. "This Richardson Bartee is related to Nan?" he asked as calmly as he could. He thought, well, that's it, then, and it's bad, all right.
But Emily shook her head. "Don't guess," she said feebly. "It's worse than you can guess. Much worse. No, not related. The old man had two wives. There's nothing like that."
So Johnny just waited.
"For seventeen years," said Emily in a moment, "Clint has been sure . . ."
"Yes?"
That the boy killed Christy. The wild kid-fifteen years old."
"What boy?"
"Richaidson Bartee," said Emily, her eyes pits of sorrow. "Now do you see?"
All Johnny's nerves tingled. "You say your brother is sure of this? Couldn't you have . . . ?"
"Proved it?" said Emily with vigor. "No. I tried." Emily was up on her elbow and he was too shocked to press her back into a position of rest. "How can I let Nan marry" cried Emily, "the very one—the one rotten evil soul in all this world—who killed her mother and let her father go to prison for it?"
"You can't," said Johnny horrified. (Oh, Lord, it's bad, he thought. Poor Nan.) But he had to think of Emily just now. "Hush, lie back. You're not going to let her marry him. Just tell Nan all this. That's all you really need to do.''
"And there goes," said Emily, "the meaning of my life and all of Clinton's sacrifice."
; The room was quiet. He was vaguely aware of sounds out in the corridors, of lights and shadows in the windows of the next wing, across the narrow court between. He himself felt too shocked and sad to move or speak.
"But I can't tell her, Johnny," said Aunt Emily at last. "Not until Clinton knows. He must decide that she be told. You can see that?"
""Yes."
"So will you go to see him?"
;;Yes."
"And will you help Nan, afterwards?"
-Yes."
"The one wrong man in all the world . . . the one wrong man for Nan."
She looked so exhausted that he was frightened. "Put it o£F your mind," he said gently. "I will go to the prison and see your brother. I will tell him. I will ask him what he wants you and me to do. And then I will do it. Don't you fret any more. Nan will be all right, you know," he went on confidently.
"You'll stand by her, Johnny?"
"You and I and Dorothy and my Ma, and all of us will stand by her," he promised warmly. "And it won't be as
terrible as you think. Listen . . ." He was frantic to comfort her. "She's aheady had what you wanted for her. She didn't grow up in any shadow at all, but in full sun. She's been as well-raised as any child on earth. You've done the job, Emily. And because you've done it, she's going to be able to take this. You'll be proud of her."
"Thank you, Johnny," Emily said. Her face was relaxing. "God bless you, Johnny Sims. I hope you're right. Yes, thank you."
"You rest now," Johnny kissed her fondly. "Leave everything to me."
"I will," said Emily. "Dear Johnny. I feel much better now."
In a little while Johnny left her. His feet fell fatefully on the vinyl floor. In the corridor, he turned sharp and went out at the end of the wing. He was fiUed with dismay. Dismay.
He had no idea what the truth was about the old tragedy. It didn't make a lot of difference what the truth was. Nan was going to be torn in bits, whatever it was. And he wasn't at all sure how Nan could take it.
After Johnny had gone, Emily Padgett lay quietly. The storm in her Ij^art and mind seemed to have died to a sdd and^ yet rather a sweet calm.
He had left the door a trifle ajar and she could tell that the hospital was full of visitors. Feet came and went in the corridor. People laughed. The world had not come to an end, after all.
How right she had been to call on Johnny Sims. Dear reliable Johnny with the kind green eyes in the long-jawed face. Tall steady Johnny who had been brought up to do the one simple right and basic thing. To keep his word. Johnny would see Clinton. Tell him as gently as such things could be told. Johnny would look out for Nan. And there was truth in all he had said. To be tested as Nan would now be tested was not necessarily terrible.
If only Nan would turn to Johnny. Johnny had always been strength and shelter for her and all might be weU at last. And the truth told. The long lie wrung out to all its useful purpose and discarded.
So she sighed deep, and rested.
The door moved. A man came in and pushed it shut
behind him. For a moment, she thought Johnny had returned. What time is it? she thought in confusion. Is it morning?
He came toward the bed, moving quietly. He wore a hat. So she saw that he was not Johnny.
He was tall and big and his eyes were a cool gray. His mouth was cut large and full and almost too well, carved and curved like the mouth on a statue. He came around the bed, his back to the window, his face to the door.
"I thought it was you. Miss McCauley," he said. "Do you remember me?"
In seventeen years, he was not bigger, but the flesh on his face was not as fresh as she remembered it. "You're making Nan mighty unhappy," he chided.
"II" Emily raised up. "You'll never marry Clinton's child," she defied him. "Not you."
"Why not? Who blames her for her father's crime?"
Emily's heart was jumping in anger. "Your crime!"
"You still insist?" He sounded sorry and even weary. He turned and touched a cord at the window that tripped the Venetian blinds. "Why haven't you told her, then, what you think I did?"
"I will. I will," she blustered. She knew this wasn't good for her heart.
He stood looking down. He had not taken off his hat.
"You think you'll marry Christy's child?" said Emily with bitter triumph. "You never will."
"Oh, I don't think you'll tell her very much now," he said pleasantly. "You've missed yoiu' chance." His hands took the pillow's edge. "You shouldn't have come back."
"My brother will tell her," Emily said sharply.
"Maybe he'll try," said the big blond dangerous man. "But it will be too late." He jerked at the pillow. Her head bounced.
"No," said Emily feebly. "No use . . ."
"She doesn't know her father," the man said, quite softly and reasonably. "Why will she believe what he tells her? If he can find her, to tell her anything. There isn't any proof, you know. There never will be."
"Then . . ."
"Oh, I can't afford to have you mLxing her up before the wedding, Miss McCauley. There's a reason—"
Emily tried to reach the bell-push, but he didn't permit it. The pillow came down upon her face. The last thing she tliought in triumph and also in defeat was: "This proves it! At last!"
Richardson Bartee watched the time on his wrist. He took plenty of time. When enough had gone by, he put the pillow back where it had been before.
He crossed the very silent, the breathless room and opened the door 1by the shank of the handle, smearing the place where his fingers had to touch it. People were standing in doorways, talking. He dodged a red-haired woman in a mink jacket, hand to his hat, obscuring his face. He got the thirty feet to the door at the end of the wing. Then he was in the parking lot.
His car was not in the parking lot, but around the comer, snug to a flowering bush. It was only a rented car, of coiurse, but Dick Bartee hadn't risked more than he knew was necessary. He was older and wiser than he had been seventeen years ago.
Twenty minutes later, he parked the rented car, crossed the sidewalk, punched the bell.
"Dick? Darling?"
He ran up. He was still holding Nan when the phone rang.
Johnny went home after all, and the phone was ringing as he got there.
"She couldn't have died!" he exploded, when Dorothy's voice had told him.
"The doctor says—it sometimes happens—to a sick and tired heart." Dorothy was crying.
Johnny's mind was churning. Why, he had just seen Emily! Could not tell the girls what Emily had said to him. Wasn't free to tell them, yet. He didn't want to be a man keeping a stubborn secret and the girls trying to guess what it was. He wouldn't put them or himself in that position. Could not even say he'd seen her.
But how could she have died!
"Look, Dotty," he said, "would you like the loan of my mother?"
'Dick is here," Dorothy sobbed, "but I think . . . Oh, Johnny, we could use her."
So Johnny hung up, dashed out, roared down two blocks to the Miller's house, rousted his parents out of their bridge game.
"I'll take you in, Barbara," his father said. "You go on home with John now. Pack. I'll explain to the Millers."
Johnny said, "Wait. I want you both to remember—you don't know a thing about the hospital calling me tonight."
"You saw Emily, Johnny?"
"Yes, but you mustn't say so. Mind, now."
"Why not?"
"Because Emily asked me to do something. Secretly.''
"You are still going to do it?" his mother asked tearfully, "now that she . . . ?"
"Of course, I'm going to do it," said Johnny fiercely. "I said I would."
CHAPTER 4
Johnny was acquainted with one of the chaplains at the prison, a man they called Father Klein. Johnny had talked with him about a convict there, in the course of doing research for Roderick Grimes. So, by ten o'clock the next morning, Johnny was in the chaplain's little office, throwing himself upon the man's mercy.
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"You'd like me to tell him about his sister's death?" asked Father Klein.
"I've got to see him myself," said Johnny. "She sent me on a—a mission. Can you help me?"
"Is it about his daughter?" asked the chaplain promptly.
"It is." Johnny felt surprise.
"Then I'll fetch him. Would it be better if I told him about Miss Editli?"
"Edithr
"I believe she called herself Emily."
/ changed all the names. I luid to. Johnny remembered. "I wish you would," he said gratefully, and then he waited.
For Nan's father.
Johnny had not seen the girls last evening. Had not met this Richardson Bartee. First he must find out what to do from Nan's father.
At last the chaplain returned with a small thin white-haired man, who looked very frail. He had a limp, Johnny saw. His skin was papery white. There was something uncanny about the face. It was serene.
"John Sims? I have heard of you," this man said in a soft cultivated voice. "From my sister. And now she's gone?"
"It was her heart. I'm sorry, sir."
"She was good," the man said. Johnny had not heard that word used just that way for a long, long time, if ever. "How is my Polly?" the man asked.
"I beg your pardon."
"Mary. I mean Nan, Her name is Mary. I used to call her Polly—when I was young and she was only one or two. 'Polly McCauley' I used to call her. Silly little rhyme. Christy never liked it."
"She's—she's sad, of course. My mother's with .her.", Johnny found ^mself floundering. The avalanche of unfamiliar designations confused him. Nor did he know this man or understand him or believe in him, one way or the other.
"Would you like me to leave you?" the chaplain asked, sensing some kind of hesitation..
"Just a minute, sir." Johnny grasped for hefp. "I think you'd better stay. He may need an older friend than I—"
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