Part 33 (1/2)

In the early morning the watcher stole downstairs, feeling as if he must for at least a few moments get into the outer world. His eyes were heavy with his vigil, yet there was no sleep behind them, and he could not bear to be long away lest a change come suddenly. The old man had not roused when he had first spoken to him, and the nurse had said that his last conscious words had been a call for his grandson. Goaded by this thought, Richard turned back before he had so much as reached the foot of the garden, where he had thought he should spend at least a quarter of an hour.

As he came in at the door he was met by Roberta, cool and fresh in blue.

It was but five in the morning; surely she did not commonly rise at this hour, even in May. The thought made his heart leap. She came straight to him and put both hands in his, saying in her friendly, low voice: ”Mr.

Kendrick, I'm sorry--sorry!”

He looked long and hungrily into her face, holding her hands with such a fierce grasp that he hurt her cruelly, though she made no sign. He did not even thank her--only held her until every detail of her face had been studied. She let him do it, and only dropped her eyes and stood colouring warmly under the inquisition. It was as if she understood that the sight of her was a moment's sedative for an aching heart, and she must yield it or be more unkind than it was in the heart of woman to be.

When he released her it was with a sigh that came up from the depths, and as she left him he stood and watched her until she was out of sight.

When Matthew Kendrick opened his eyes at ten o'clock on the morning after his fall the first thing they rested upon was the face he loved best in the world. It came instantly nearer, the eyes meeting his imploringly, as if begging him to speak. So with some little effort he did speak. ”Well, d.i.c.k,” he said slowly, ”I'm glad you came, boy. I wanted you; I didn't know but I was about getting through. But--I believe I'm still here, after all.”

Then he saw a strange sight. Great tears leaped into the eyes he was looking at, tears that rolled unheeded down the fresh-coloured cheeks of his boy. Richard tried to speak, but could not. He could only gently grasp his grandfather's hand and press it tightly in both his own.

”I feel pretty well battered up,” the old man continued, his voice growing stronger, ”but I think I can move a little.” He stirred slightly under his blanket, a fact the nurse noted with joyful intentness. ”So I think I'm all here. Are you so glad, d.i.c.k, that you can cry about it?”

The smile came then upon his grandson's lighting face. ”Glad, grandfather?” said he, with some difficulty. ”Why, you're all I have in the world! I shouldn't know how to face it without you.”

The old man dropped off to sleep again, his hand contentedly resting in his grandson's. Presently the doctor looked in, studied the situation in silence, held a minute's whispered colloquy with the nurse, then moved to Richard's side. The young man looked up at him and he nodded. He bent to Richard's ear.

”Things look different,” he whispered succinctly. At the slight sibilance of the whisper the old man opened his eyes again. His glance travelled up the distinguished physician's body to his face. He smiled in quite his own whimsical way.

”Fooled even a noted person like you, did I, Winston?” he chuckled feebly. ”Just because I chose to go to sleep and didn't fidget round much you thought I'd got my quietus, did you?”

”I think you're a pretty vigorous personality,” responded the physician, ”and I'm quite willing to be fooled by you. Now I want you to take a little nourishment and go to sleep again. If you think so much of this young man of yours you can have him again in an hour, but I'm going to send him away now. You see, he's been sitting right there all night.”

Matthew Kendrick's eyes rested fondly again upon Richard's smiling face.

”You rascal!” he sighed. ”You always did give me trouble about being up o' nights!”

Richard Kendrick ran downstairs three steps at a bound. At the bottom he met Judge Calvin Gray. He seized the hand of his grandfather's old-time friend and wrung it. The expression of heavy sadness on the Judge's face changed to one of bewilderment, and as he scanned the radiant countenance of Matthew Kendrick's grandson he turned suddenly pale with joy.

”You don't mean--”

Then he comprehended that Richard was finding it as hard to speak good news as if it had been bad. But in an instant the young man was in command of himself again.

”It wasn't apoplexy--it wasn't paralysis--it was only the shock of the fall and the bruises. He's been talking to me; he's been twitting the doctor on having been fooled. Oh, he's as alive as possible, and I--Judge Gray, I never was so happy in my life!”

With congratulations in his heart for his old friend on the possession of this young love which was as genuine as it was strong, the Judge said: ”Well, my dear fellow, let us thank G.o.d and breathe again. This has been the darkest night I've spent in many a year--and this is the brightest morning.”

Everybody in the house was presently rejoicing in the news. But if Richard expected Roberta to be as generous with him in his joy as she had been in his grief he found himself disappointed. She did not fail to express to him her sympathy with his relief, but she did it with reinforcements of her family at hand, and with Ruth's arm about her waist. She had trusted him when torn with anxiety; clearly she did not trust him now in the reaction from that anxiety. He was in wild spirits, no doubt of that; she could see it in his brilliant eyes.

It still lacked six weeks of Midsummer.

CHAPTER XX

SIDE LIGHTS

Louis Gray sat in a capacious willow easy-chair beside the high white iron hospital bed upon which lay Hugh Benson, convalescing from his attack of fever. ”Pretty comfortable they make you here,” Louis observed, glancing about. ”I didn't know their private rooms were as big and airy as this one.”