Daphne Deane

by Grace Livingston Hill

  It came to be necessary for the doctor to write a brief line of a daily bulletin each time he came, and leave it on the telephone stand. Daphne had learned to save herself by sending Ranse or Beverly to the telephone to give the doctor's word and no more.

  But among others who made friendly telephone calls of inquiry each day was Mr. Dinsmore. He said he was a friend of Keith's father and wanted to come out as soon as there was a chance he might see the invalid, and Daphne always answered him gently and went more into detail about the invalid than when others called. She told the children always to call her when he was on the telephone. He seemed a kindly, fatherly man.

  Then one morning there was a change. The fever had abated somewhat, the wound was draining nicely, the cerebral condition seemed decidedly better, and the patient had dropped into what seemed like a normal sleep for the first time since the shooting.

  Doctor McKenna came and went several times that day, and toward evening he brought Doctor Morgan out with him for a few minutes. When they went away they seemed almost cheerful.

  "We may have some good news for you now in a day or so, if the cerebral symptoms don't return," he told Daphne, and wrote on the telephone pad that the condition of the patient was slightly more hopeful. Daphne went about as if walking on air. Her heart almost felt like singing, though it had to be a silent song, for the doctor had cautioned special quiet during the next few hours. It was possible that full consciousness might return at any time, and there must be nothing to startle or weary the sick man.

  That evening just as Daphne was about to retire, the nurse came through the hall elated. The patient had opened his eyes and asked for a drink of water. He had taken several spoonfuls and then dropped off to sleep like a baby.

  "He'll be better in the morning, I'm sure," said the nurse. "I know the signs.

  And Daphne went to sleep, her heart full of thanksgiving.

  Chapter 20

  One morning after the reports in the papers had for three days in succession announced improvement in the patient, whom now the whole town had come to consider their own personal property, William Knox entered the police headquarters and requested an interview with the chief. The interview was granted and they sat down, William fearsomely on the edge of a straight wooden chair, and the big police head in a swivel chair behind his desk. William resembled a poor little whipped puppy requesting life of a big mastiff.

  "I've come to see you about a personal matter," said William, lowering his voice and looking about him as if he expected to see spies in every corner ready to fly to Martha with the matter. "It is strictly confidential."

  "Go ahead, Knox," said the mastiff. "This room is soundproof. Nobody to hear you. Personal, you say?"

  "Well, not altogether personal, either," said Knox, looking down at his old hat, which he was fingering nervously. "It has to do somewhat remotely with this case of Gowney and Morrell."

  "You don't say!" said the chief. "Well, let's hear! Why didn't you come around sooner?"

  "Well, I figured that what I knew I should tell directly to Mr. Morrell himself. It had to do with the sale of the house to Gowney. You see, Mr. Morrell wanted to sell, and Gowney had agreed to buy, but the price wasn't just settled. And then Mr. Morrell came down and changed his mind about selling. After he had gone back to New York, Gowney came around hotfoot and offered a lot more. He offered so much I hadn't an idea Morrell wouldn't take it. I thought he'd just jump at the chance. So to make sure Gowney wouldn't get away before I could get in touch with Morrell, I let him give me a retainer. Then I tried to get in touch with Morrell and couldn't--found he'd gone to Boston. It was three days before I contacted him and then I had to write a letter, and right away I got a telegram he wouldn't sell at any price. So I wired back it was already sold, and he wired for me to cancel it and return the retainer, that he wouldn't sell it for nothing. So I went everywhere trying to find that skunk Gowney, and his folks said he'd gone away to a funeral. And then all of a sudden come this here shooting, and I didn't know what to do. I'm up a tree. I figured I'd go tell Morrell, but they won't let me see him, and I can't keep all this money in the house, not with folks like Gowney around town, and so I come to ask your advice. Who belongs to that money? Should I go give it to Gowney, or should I wait till Morrell's well and give it to him, or should I put it in the bank, or what?"

  The chief had watched the sad, worried little man step by step, his own face like a mask, with no expression on it at all. And now as Knox came to an embarrassed stop and looked up frightened, he said: "Got that money with ya now?"

  "Yes," said William, like a little dog owning to a bone that the big dog wanted.

  "Let's see it." He reached a burly hand out, and William with difficulty extracted the unusual roll of bills from his trousers pocket and handed it forth in a trembling hand, with an if-I-perish-I-perish expression on his face.

  "All that?" The chief gave him a dagger of a searching glance. But the little man had told everything and his eyes were no longer shifty. At least, he had told practically everything. He had fixed up that story so that there was no mention of that money having been a personal retainer for himself, which gave possession immediately. But that, he told his conscience, was all right. He might not have kept that money anyway, even if all had gone as planned. He hadn't ever really settled that with his conscience as yet.

  "Yes, all that!" he said with a sigh of relinquishment. Martha didn't know yet. What would Martha say when she found he'd come to the police? But she couldn't do anything about it now it was done, except yammer, and she might as well yammer about one thing as another. Anyway, his conscience was clear at last. He told himself he was an honest man at heart, and he wanted everybody to know it.

  The big policeman fingered over the money slowly, lifting some of it up to the light and looking at it, bill by bill. At last he rolled it up firmly and held it in his hand.

  "Well, William, I'll just tell ya, it's a lucky thing you turned that money in ta me ur you'd-a ben in real trouble, and I don't mean mebbe!"

  "Oh!" said William, wide-eyed and fairly shaking with anxiety. "I would? How?"

  "It's a luckier thing, too, you didn't try passing none of it!"

  "Oh?" said William, wetting his lips and trying to think how to ask another question. But all he could manage was a feeble "Why?"

  "Because," went on the chief, "this here is counterfeit money. This money is wanted by the federal government."

  "Counterfeit money?" said William in weak amazement. "Let me look at it again. I never saw any counterfeit money."

  "You've seen this here!" said the chief, laying it on the table beside him, yet keeping his big paw over the half of it.

  William reached out a hesitating finger and touched the money.

  "Why, it looks just like real money. I never suspected it. I don't see how you know."

  "That's why it's counterfeit. It's so good most folks couldn't tell it from good money. What would they wantta make counterfeit money for if they couldn't fool folks and pass it out?"

  "Well, that's so! I never thought of that before. Well, I am all beat out about that. And I had all that worry about it and I needn't to've worried about it at all. If anybody had uv stole it, they wouldn't uv got nothing."

  "Well, you're lucky, you are, that you didn't try to pass any of it. You'd have got tied up in this here case that may turn out to be a murder case yet, fer all we know. Young Morrell ain't any too well yet, I'm told."

  "Gosh! I'm glad I came to you," said William naively. "Gosh, what I gotta do now with it?"

  "I'll take care of it. You leave it with me."

  "But what'll I do if Mr. Morrell gets well and I have to give him evidence that I had that money, ur thought I had it, which amounts to the same thing?"

  "Here, I'll give ya a receipt. Now don't you go blabbing to everybody about this. Keep it under yer hat till the time comes. You'll probably be called upon ta testify in the case when it comes up, but until then keep quiet. Don't tel
l anybody. Not anybody!"

  "Gosh! I wouldn't like ta have ta testify," said William Knox. "I've always been a peace-abiding man, and I don't liketa get in the public eye. It might injure my business."

  "Oh, that won't injure your business, just give you a little pep in the eyes of folks, make 'em think you're up and coming."

  William looked troubled and wriggled on his chair.

  "But I've heard these gangsters always get their revenge on anybody that tells on 'em. I wouldn't liketa be shot after testifying. What would become of my wife?"

  "Oh, you needn't worry about that. You aren't important enough for that. They only risk their necks on big shots. You're all right. Good-bye, and don't say nothing to nobody!"

  William went away blinking, wondering what he was going to say to Martha. He couldn't tell her a lie when she asked, and she would ask, he was sure. He never seemed to get a lie straight. It always had LIE written across the face of it, written in his timid eyes and all over him. And what else could he tell Martha if he mustn't tell her the truth? He wondered miserably whether that chief was married and whether he had a wife like Martha who always ferreted out everything.

  The days went by, and at last it was an assured fact that Keith Morrell was going to get well. It was going to be a slow process, days, perhaps weeks, before he would be able to be out and about again, but he was not going to die. Not now anyway.

  As the daily bulletins showed Morrell's progress there began to be talk about the Gowney trial, and a hint that more of his counterfeit money had been found. Every time that William Knox read anything like this in the paper he managed to lose the paper somehow before he got home, and Martha began to tell him he was getting old, couldn't keep a paper till he got home. He'd better have it delivered at the house instead of the office.

  These were busy days for Daphne now, though happy ones. Just to pass the door of the guest room and get a glimpse of Keith's quiet face against the pillow was enough to make her heart glad. She had been in to see him several times, just on some errand, to take a tray or bring a letter to the nurse, and always there had been a feeble flicker of a smile to greet her. His lips would sometimes form the word "Hello!" feebly. It was enough for her just to serve him quietly from afar and feel he was friendly again.

  No one had spoken to him as yet of what he had been through, nor had he asked. He seemed content just to lie there and be cared for. Whether he remembered anything about the shooting or not, no one knew. The doctor said in view of the cerebral conditions that had lasted so long, it was better not to let him think about those things. So they came and went and smiled at him, and he smiled back. Or if he seemed too tired to smile with his lips his eyes always seemed to smile anyway.

  One day while he was sleeping, the nurse received a telephone call on business, and she asked Daphne to sit with the patient while she ran down to the bank to straighten out a little matter. The patient was asleep and would likely stay so until her return. So Daphne caught up her Bible from the bedside table in her room and went in to sit by the window and study a little while.

  It was very quiet in the room, a meadowlark was singing off in the distance and the soft white curtains were blowing in the breeze. There was a peace about the room, and a peace in Daphne's heart, as she read. Keith Morrell was getting well, and she felt that her prayers were being answered. Her heart was full of great thanksgiving and trust. She would not let herself think about anything in the future. The Lord had helped in this great crisis, and He would help in whatever came afterward, of either joy or sorrow. She had opened her Bible to the thirty-fourth psalm, a favorite one with her, and as she read on it seemed to voice the gladness in her own heart.

  Now and then she would glance up and see that her patient was still quietly asleep, and so she sat, a little smile upon her lips as she let her heart rest down hard upon the words of the Book.

  Suddenly she looked up and saw that Keith's eyes were open and he was looking straight at her, and when their eyes met he smiled. It reminded her of the day they had first met on the ballpark and he had smiled as if he knew her, and her heart thrilled. He was back from the borderland with friendly eyes and a smile. Life had sunshine again and was greatly worth living. No need to question what it all meant. God was good. God was leading in His own way.

  Then he spoke, slowly, his voice weak and not so buoyant as in health: "What are you reading?" he asked wistfully.

  "My Bible," she said shyly.

  "Read it to me," he said. "I'd like to see what----makes--you look so--happy."

  She looked up and smiled, a soft color blooming in her cheeks.

  "It's a psalm," she said. "It seemed just to voice my own feelings. We are all so glad you are getting well--"

  He smiled again.

  "That's nice!"

  "But you mustn't talk," she said. "The nurse will scold me if I let you. I'll read."

  " 'I will bless the Lord at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth.' "

  His eyes kindled as she read.

  When she came to the words: "This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles," he lifted his hand feebly and let it drop again on the bedspread.

  "That's me!' he said with a smile.

  A flood of joy came into her eyes, and then she read on to the end of the psalm. After she finished he was very still, his eyes closed. She thought he had fallen asleep again, but presently he spoke.

  "I--used to belong--to the Lord--!" he said slowly. "I took Him for my Savior! I've always--believed----on Him. But--I--got--way off--in--the--world."

  It was very still there for a minute. Then he went on.

  "I've--been--trying----to come back! I--think--He sent--me--here!"

  "Of course He did!" said Daphne with a lilt in her voice. "I'm so glad! I thought you belonged to Him!"

  He smiled and closed his eyes.

  "You are tired," she said quickly. "You mustn't talk another word. It's time for your orange juice." And she sprang to get it.

  He swallowed the orange juice obediently and then lifted his hand with an effort and laid it on hers as she held the glass.

  "You're--something like--an angel----yourself--you know! Angel--of--the Lord!"

  Daphne, too much moved to say much, simply laid her other hand on his and patted it softly.

  "Thank you," she said, "that's beautiful! Now, you go to sleep, or I shall get scolded."

  His eyes followed her as she smoothed the covers and went across the room to draw down the shades. Then she curled up in a big chair and closed her own eyes, trying to contain the beautiful gladness that swelled over her whole being. Of course, she told herself, it was just because she had been so tired and anxious and overwrought that she was so silly as to feel almost like crying with gladness.

  That was just the day before Anne Casper came again, came in a big limousine with a uniformed chauffeur and the smartest outfit she owned.

  Chapter 21

  "Oh, so you're here yet, are you?" Anne Casper greeted Daphne as she came to the door. Daphne was white to the lips at the sudden apparition, her great happiness shattering in fragments at her feet.

  "Well, I have Doctor Morgan's permission, so I suppose you'll allow me to come," she said with fine sarcasm and followed Daphne up the stairs, in spite of her request that she would wait until the nurse said it was all right to come.

  Daphne, her heart in a strange tumult that she did not understand, went slowly up the stairs and tapped ceremoniously on the partly closed door, holding out the doctor's note.

  Then they both heard Keith's voice, a bit imperious, eager, in the tone of a convalescent: "Is that Daphne? Tell her to come in. I want her to read to me again."

  Anne darted a sharp glance at her and Daphne's cheeks flushed, but she kept her poise and did not look at the other girl.

  Then the nurse's voice: "It's someone else you'll want to see, Mr. Morrell. Miss Casper has come to see you." And she swung the door wide open.
<
br />   "What the dickens--!" said Keith in quite a cross tone and turned his head toward the door just as Anne stepped smiling triumphantly into the room.

  Keith studied her for a minute, with his brows drawn down in an ungracious scowl. Then he said in a merely casual tone, as if he had seen her only the day before: "Hello, Anne! How're you?"

  "I'm fine," said Anne smilingly, turning her glance to see if Daphne had gone. Daphne had but not far. She heard every word that was said, although she hadn't meant to. The door of the nurse's room in which she had taken refuge was blocked open by a little table, and she couldn't get it shut without making a lot of fuss, so she just stood there out of sight with scarlet cheeks and trembling limbs.

  Keith continued to stare at his visitor.

  "Nice of you to come and see me," he added as if he had had a hard time thinking it up. Then, after an instant he pointed to a chair.

  "You can sit down there and talk to the nurse if you want to. I'm not allowed to talk." And he dropped back on his pillow and closed his eyes.

  Anne looked startled and then rallied: "This isn't the first time I've been to see you, Keith!" she said with her very sweetest smile. "They wouldn't let me stay the last time I came."

  "No? Well, I don't remember. But it doesn't matter. I'm not very sociable nowadays. I'm getting rested and I can't be bothered. You'll excuse me if I go to sleep, won't you? I find I'm rather tired again."

  He turned over on his pillow, his face away from her and closed his eyes. Anne stared at him in bewilderment, and then she went and stood over at the other side of the bed looking down at him.