He turned abruptly and beckoned to his housekeeper, who came, her hands in her apron. He pointed silently outside; she glanced, and nodded. He whispered: “Look ye, I’m not to ’ome. I’ve gone out for a bit of fresh air.”
She nodded again, curiously. Mr. Wilkins whisked himself out of the room just as the knocker resounded furiously on the door. He entered his own room, closed the door, then, as an afterthought, he locked it. He sat down on the bed.
Well, it was all over. He had done with Johnnie. He had given Johnnie what he wanted. Johnnie had not been the man to keep it. Johnnie had always been the fool. Now, Johnnie, no doubt, had lost his hatred. He was not the chap for Mr. Wilkins any longer, even if what had happened last night had not occurred. He had washed his hands of Johnnie. A stupid violent devil. The future would go on without Johnnie. It would go on with the little lass, with Tony Bollister. Mr. Wilkins frowned reflectively. A hard ’un, yes. Not one to be led easily. Liked money like the rest of ’em; but there would be things he wouldn’t do. No chap for Mr. Wilkins’ money. Nevertheless, there was the little lass to protect. Mr. Wilkins began to smile. A tender look overspread his rosy face, suffusing it with a brighter colour. It might be interesting to be an honest man for a change, to satisfy a curiosity he had always had: whether an honest man could succeed in the world.
Mr. Wilkins doubted it very much. An honest man in a den of thieves was invariably stripped to the eyebrows, and a good thing. An honest man was a fool. He deserved the last crust of charity thrown to him. The wages of sin was a rich old age. The wages of honesty was the workhouse. Still, the experiment might be exciting. He, Mr. Wilkins, would try it. He would be Anthony’s right hand man. Later, the young ass would be convinced by experience that honesty was a virtue no one but the dying and the dead could afford, but in the meantime it would have its elements of novelty, and the ageless Mr. Wilkins loved novelty.
“Mr. Wilkins,” he said aloud, slapping himself on his casklike chest, “from this day henceforth, you’re an honest man. Honest Bob: that’s wot they’ll call you.”
He heard a confusion of footsteps on the polished stairs, but no voices. He rose and pressed his ear against the wall, and listened.
The physicians, recognizing the formidable Mr. Turnbull, hastened forward to greet him with important and solemn faces. If they were highly astonished and diverted at the mysterious presence of Miss Turnbull in this house, and in a dangerous condition of illness, they tactfully refrained from referring to it. They bowed to him and his lady with great ceremony, and immediately launched into a learned discussion of the young lady’s disease, symptoms and condition, interrupting each other impatiently as they did so.
“In cases of lung fever, sir,” said Dr. Walker, portentously.
“Pneumonia, my dear doctor,” urged Dr. Gorman, with a bow to his colleague, and a faintly smug smile.
Dr. Walker drew himself up with hauteur, and fingered his pince-nez. “I hold no brief for modern and pretentious terminology in medicine,” he replied, scathingly, but still with the utmost politeness. “I have never considered it necessary to confuse, with the idea of impressing, the layman, employing Greek and Roman obscurities. It is rather a cheap attempt to subdue the layman, force him to accord the medical profession a kind of spurious respect in lieu of real respect for our knowledge. Lung fever, my dear colleague,” he added, with a wintry smile, “is as bad under any other name, and the layman, upon hearing it, has a definite picture of the syndrome, its symptoms, its probable mortalities, its chances for recovery. What does he see when he hears the affected word: ‘Pneumonia?’ A mysterious malady, with which he is not familiar, and which terrifies him as though it were some strange and unfamiliar disease which will certainly terminate the life of his loved one with dispatch.”
“Lung fever is ambiguous,” contradicted Dr. Gorman. “Lung. Fever. A hundred diseases might come into that category. In every such disease there is inflammation of the lung; there is fever. The layman should have a clear picture: yes. But he also should know the true character of the disease from which he or his loved ones suffer.”
John interrupted impatiently, trying to see Adelaide over their shoulders: “Gentlemen, call the disease what you will, for all of me. I am interested only in knowing the full extent of my daughter’s illness, and the chances for her recovery.”
With more abruptness than politeness, he pushed the doctors aside, supported the trembling and pallid Lilybelle on one side as Anthony supported her on the other, and approached the bed.
Adelaide was either in a deep sleep or a stupor. John could not tell. Her face was very small and pinched, the skin bluish where it was not streaked with scarlet on the sharp cheekbones. Her hoarse breathing filled the room. She was lifted high on pillows. A kettle, filled with some sort of medicinal ingredient, permeated the room with a strong odour. Its steam was directed, by means of a sheet, to the girl. There was a strange and removed dignity in her expression; her eyelids were bruised in appearance, and twitched, as if she was absorbed in some gigantic struggle deep within herself. Her neatly plaited hair coiled on the pillows; they saw the red dried cut on her forehead. There was about her an arching tenseness; her hands on the quilt were clenched so that the knuckles sprang out under the skin.
Lilybelle began to whimper. She sagged in John’s and Anthony’s arms, and fell on her knees beside the bed. She said nothing. But she lifted Adelaide’s cold blue hands and pressed them deep within her bosom, to warm them. She fixed her eyes upon the girl’s face. Now her whimpering was still. Long convulsions ran over her mountainous flesh in visible ripples. But she did not move, nor speak. All the power of her love, grim, indomitable, passionate, was focussed upon Adelaide, denying her death and peace, urging her, in some mysterious and desperate and silent communication, to return, to come back, to see and hear again.
John stood beside the bed, holding to a bed-post. He, too, was completely silent. He looked down upon his child. The hand tightened on the bed-post. His closed dark face had become almost emaciated in appearance. Like Lilybelle, he fixed his eyes upon Adelaide, and did not remove them. Under them, there were purple pockets, swollen and heavy.
He saw Adelaide as he had never seen her before. He watched her struggle for life, a struggle implicit with gravity and soundless courage. The hand on the bed-post tightened. His eyes closed, and there was a sunken appearance about his mouth that gave him the look of an old and exhausted man, full of despair, knowledge, self-hatred and over-powering sorrow.
Anthony, too, bent over Adelaide, touching her forehead and her cheek. But he found Lilybelle’s expression, her iron passion and misery, far more pathetic than his young wife’s heroic battle for her life. Slow tears, each one rounded and unhurried, ran down from Lilybelle’s eyes, but there was no contortion or squeezing of her eyelids, no distortion of her mouth such as appear in facile emotion. There was a great dignity, and immeasurable anguish, in those tears, but also, very strangely, an immense fortitude and resolution. She would not let Adelaide die. She would fight every inch of the perilous way with the frightful enemy; she would not go down. Her spiritual arms clutched her child, and she lifted her face in steadfast denial to the enemy that would snatch away that child.
John had turned away. He approached the doctors, and said in a hoarse swift voice: “I want the truth. Will she live?”
The doctors exchanged with each other a look of superior resignation at the stupidity of the layman. They rose to their full heights, and regarded John gravely.
“There are a number of possibilities, my dear sir,” said the unctuous Dr. Walker. “She may—expire—of exhaustion, of suffocation, at any moment. You have asked for a frank and manly opinion; we are giving you that. Then, again, she may survive to the crisis, which may occur in five, in seven, or even in nine days, if exhaustion does not terminate her sufferings before that. At the crisis, there may occur, if conditions are favourable, the strength maintained, a rapid fall in temperature and a profuse perspirat
ion. Thereafter, in these favourable cases, convalescence slowly begins. However, should the crisis not be favourable, there is increasing brief fever, then a falilng of the temperature, a heightening of the exhaustion, an increase in the cough, more difficult breathing, coma, suffocation—collapse.”
John seized the doctor’s arm and shook him roughly. His livil lips parted and showed the savage glisten of his teeth. “I did not ask you for a list of symptoms. You see my daughter. What chance has she for—living—?”
Dr. Walker looked at the hand that gripped him with severe affront, but did not try to free himself. “My dear sir, we are only physicians. We are not God. I understand that she suffered prolonged exposure last night, when already in the throes of the disease. That has not increased the possibilities of her recovery. We can only wait and see; we can only pray. She is young, we must remember.”
John released the doctor’s arm. His hand fell heavily to his side. He stared at the man with eyes suddenly fiery.
He began to speak in a low pent voice: “There are hundreds of thousands of people in this city—millions. There are dogs and rats, too. All kinds of superfluous and ugly life. There are thousands of worthless creatures here who walk the street in health and safety. Yet, my daughter, my daughter, lies here, and may die. From your faces, I understand that she will not live!”
He paused, as if smothering. He drew a loud and grating breath. “Life all around us, hateful and vicious and useless life, but my daughter will not live! A city full of physicians, and you cannot save her!”
His hands clenched into fists. The fire in his eyes was wild and infuriated.
“A little life—you can’t save it. A poor little life, that never harmed a soul, that was never guilty of a crime, and you are impotent! Look you, there is no end to money, if you save her. Ask what you wish; you will get it. But you cannot let her die! Before God, you can’t let her die!”
He is mad, thought the physicians, glancing at each other again. Dr. Walker tried to speak soothingly: “My dear sir, we are doing all we can. Nothing more can be done. If it will help your natural sensibilities, the sensibilities of a stricken father, I will remain with her constantly, until Dr. Gorman can take up the vigil in turn. We shall leave nothing undone—”
“The foulest life,” muttered John. “That is safe. But my daughter—”
“There is no bargaining with God,” said Dr. Gorman, with some pity. “We cannot say to Him: ‘Here is a rat, that has life, or a criminal, or a drab. Take such a life and leave that which is precious.’ We can only pray to him that this beloved life be spared.”
John was silent. His head dropped on his breast. He felt some one take his arm. He heard Anthony say: “Please. This is no use. They are doing what they can. Sit down, I beg of you.”
He felt himself in a chair. Some one was beside him; an arm lay on his shoulders, pressing it. He covered his face with his hands, and broke out into the most terrible sobbing, dry and tearless. Anthony glanced at the doctors, who shook their heads gravely. They were startled into pity for this desperate and broken man, who, in the supreme moment, had nothing to offer but his agony, and no courage but impotent rage and torment, and desolation.
His hands dropped from his face. It was ravaged, distorted. He clenched his hands and beat them on his knees, soundlessly now, but with slow heavy blows. He was conscious of nothing but his anguish, his helplessness, and his remorse which burned and blasted his heart.
The doctors, much touched, thought that here was a father whose pet, whose darling, lay just within the gray grasp of death, that nothing could reconcile him in his vehement and almost insane sorrow. But Anthony knew it was more than this. He knew it was a crushing and frantic remorse. If Adelaide died, then John would die, expiring of his unbearable agony. The young man forgot his own torture in his attempts to calm the man who really deserved his utmost hatred.
The housekeeper and the nurse, who had been watching this scene avidly, were extremely affected, and wept, in the manner of their kind. Only Lilybelle was removed and quiet, as if no one was in this room but herself and her child, as if nothing else existed but her supreme stern struggle with the enemy that was dragging at one hand as she held the other. In her dedication, in her stern and heroic concentration, was the nobility and the grandeur and the inflexible strength of a prayer.
She, alone, heard Adelaide sigh and stir on her pillows. She alone saw the fluttering of the tired eyelids, the indrawing of breath that dilated the transparent nostrils. She saw the weary eyes open and look at her with slow recognition.
“Yes, my little love, my little lass,” whispered Lilybelle, and she lifted the girl in her arms and held her against her breast. Adelaide’s head lay on her mother’s shoulder; the warmth and strength of her mother’s arms were about her.
“Mama,” whispered the girl, in her great exhaustion.
“Yes, yes, little lovey. We must rest now,” said Lilybelle with infinite tenderness. She gently laid the girl back on her pillows. She took the small hands and pressed and rubbed them. There was a faint warmth in them now. Adelaide was smiling.
The doctors became aware of movement near the bed. They came at once, bent over the girl, holding her pulse, listening intently to her breathing. John and Anthony were alone.
Anthony was speaking to John in a low voice. “Don’t give up. She is fighting, still. She won’t die. I know it. Can you hear me? She won’t die. Not now.”
John did not appear to hear at first. Then, as Anthony’s repeated words slowly entered his consciousness, he lifted his head and looked at the young man. There was hopeless pleading on his face, simple and moved. Anthony nodded, pressed his arm strongly about John’s shoulders.
Dr. Walker was at his side now, his face quite excited for all its dignity. “The girl is conscious,” he whispered. “It is too early to say. But there has been a marked improvement—a very small, but marked improvement. You might speak to her. But only for a moment, I beg of you.”
Anthony helped John to his feet. The older man swayed and staggered. The doctor and Anthony guided him as one might guide a half conscious man. They reached the bed. Adelaide opened her eyes again and saw them together. A smile, surprised, delighted and very soft, parted her pale and swollen lips.
John knelt beside her, opposite Lilybelle. He looked long into his daughter’s eyes. His hand was against her cheek, smoothing it. He tried to smile, and his look was unbearably poignant even to the doctors.
“Yes, my dear, it’s Papa. Papa understands everything. You must rest. And then, you must come home.”
His voice, low and hoarse, came falteringly, feebly. Adelaide listened, her eyes fixed on his face. Then, she weakly turned her head and kissed the hand that lay along her cheek. She tried to speak.
“Nothing matters,” said John. “Nothing matters but my darling.”
She had never heard such a tone from him, nor such words. Wonder and delight shone in her poor eyes, and brightened her colour. She could not look away from him.
“Forgive me, my love” said John, brokenly.
Lilybelle, kneeling opposite him, timidly extended her hand across the white bed, and he felt the movement rather than saw it. He grasped her hand, held it convulsively. His fingers were chill and stiff as ice, hers warm and strong. He clung to her hand, almost crushing it.
Adelaide hardly moved, but she seemed to curve towards her father, to lay in the circle of his arm. Anthony stood near John, and smiled down at her. She returned his smile. She tried to speak, and then, in the midst of her whispering words, she fell asleep.
“I think she will do now,” said Dr. Walker, rubbing his glasses vigorously. “Yes, I think she will do now. With care, with rest, with devotion.”
Mr. Wilkins had listened to everything, with much interest and satisfaction. After a long time, he heard a door open, and Anthony and Dr. Walker came out into the hall. They talked together long and earnestly. Mr. Wilkins listened frankly at the key-hole. Dr. Walker went down
the polished stairs with a firm and distinguished tread. Mr. Wilkins opened the door, and saw Anthony alone, musing thoughtfully. The young man frowned when he saw the affable old gentleman.
“Ah,” whispered Mr. Wilkins. “The little lass will do, eh? Very good, very good. Like a ’appy endin’ to a fairy tale. Reconciliations, and such. Very affectin’. I’m a kind man, Mr. Bollister. I ’ave a heart. This does me good.”
Anthony could not help smiling a little. His hand was on the door handle of Adelaide’s room. Mr. Wilkins plucked his sleeve. He winked amiably. He tapped the young man on the chest.
“And you and me, eh? We’ve got a lot of blasted work to do? Eh?”
Anthony was silent a moment. Then his smile broadened. He nodded slowly. His gray eyes were hard as new steel. He extended his hand to Mr. Wilkins who took it and shook it warmly.
Mr. Wilkins stood alone for a long moment or two staring at the white door closed in his face. He nodded over and over, played with his watch-chain, smiled.
The blasted young beggar would not fail him. There was iron there, and stone. If there was also a curious honesty and integrity, this would not prevent vengeance. No softness. It would be very interesting, indeed. Mr. Wilkins chuckled richly.
“I allus give ’em wot they wants,” he whispered to himself.
He rubbed his hands together with slow delight. He felt new life in him, new excitement. Life had taken on its old richness once again.
A shaft of sunlight struck from the high skylight upon his face. It was evil and rosy, and full of chuckling mirth. And very terrible.
A Biography of Taylor Caldwell
Taylor Caldwell was one of the most prolific and widely read American authors of the twentieth century. In a career that spanned five decades, she wrote forty novels, many of which were New York Times bestsellers.
The Turnbulls Page 67
