Leerie

LEERIE

BY

RUTH SAWYER

AUTHOR OF
SEVEN MILES TO ARDEN, Etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY
CLINTON BALMER

GROSSET & DUNLAP
NEW YORK PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

Leerie
Copyright 1920, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America

To
Lamplighters—the world over

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Foreword

I like to write stories. Best of all I like to write stories about people who help the world to go round with a little more cheer and good will than is usual. You know—and I know—there are a few who put into life something more than the bare ingredients. They add a plum here—extra spice there. They bake it well—and then they trim it up like an all-the-year-round birthday cake with white frosting, angelica, and red cherries. Last of all they add the candles and light them so that it glows warmly and invitingly for all; fine to see, sweet to taste.

Of course, there are not so many people with the art or the will to do this, and, having done it, they have not always the bigness of heart to pass it round for the others to share. But I like to make it my business to find as many as I can; and when I am lucky enough to find one I pop him—or her—into a book, to have and to hold always as long as books last and memory keeps green.

Not long ago I was ill—ridiculously ill—and my doctor popped me into a sanitarium. “Here’s the place,” I said, “where people are needed to make the world go round cheerfully, if they are needed anywhere.” And so I set about to get well and find one.

She came—before I had half finished. The first thing I noticed was the inner light in her—a light as from many candles. It shone all over her face and made the room brighter for a long time after she had left. The next thing I noticed was the way everybody watched for her to come round—everybody turning child again with nose pressed hard against the window-pane. It made me remember Stevenson’s Lamplighter; and for many days there rang in my ears one of his bits of human understanding:

And oh! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night.

Before I knew it I had all the makings of a story. I trailed it through the mud of gossip and scandal; I followed it to the highroad of adventure and on to the hills of inspiration and sacrifice. It was all there—ripe for the plucking; and with the good assistance of Hennessy I plucked it. Before the story was half written I was well—so much for the healing grace of a story and the right person to put in it.

This much I have told that you may know that Leerie is as true as all the best and finest things in the world are true. I am only the passer-on of life as she has made it—spiced, trimmed, and lighted with many candles. So if the taste pleases, help yourself bountifully; there is enough for all. And if you must thank any one—thank Leerie.

Ruth Sawyer.

LEERIE

Chapter I

THE MAN WHO FEARED SLEEP

Peter Brooks felt himself for a man given up. He had felt his physical unfitness for some time in the silent, condemning judgment masked under the too sympathetic gaze of his fellow-men; he had felt it in the over-solicitous inquiries after his health made by the staff; and there was his chief, who had fallen into the comfortable week-end habit of telling him he looked first-rate, and in the same breath begging him to take the next week off. For months past he had been conscious of the sidelong glances cast by his brother alumni at the College Club when he appeared, and the way they had of dropping into a contradictory lot of topics whenever he joined a group unexpectedly showed only too plainly that he had been the real subject under discussion. Yes, he felt that the world at large had turned its thumb down as far as he was concerned, but it had caused him surprisingly little worry until that last visit to Doctor Dempsy.

There it was as if Peter’s sensibilities concerning himself had suddenly become acute. The doctor sounded too reassuring even for a combined friend and physician; he protested too much that he had found nothing at all the matter with him—nothing at all. When a doctor seems so superlatively anxious to set a man right with himself, it is time to look out; therefore the casual, just-happened-to-mention-it way that he finally broached the question of a sanitarium came within an inch of knocking the last prop from under Peter’s resolve not to lose his grip. For the first time he fully realized how it felt to be given up, and, characteristically, he thanked the Almighty that there was no one to whom it would really matter.

For a year he had been slowly going to pieces; for a year he had been dropping in for Dempsy to patch him up. There had been a host of miserable puny ailments which in themselves meant nothing, but combined and in a young man meant a great deal. Of late his memory had failed him outrageously; he had had frequent attacks of vertigo, and these of themselves had rendered him unreliable and unfit for newspaper work. Irresponsible! Unfit! Peter snorted the words out honestly to himself. Under these conditions, and with no one to care, he could see no plausible reason for trying to coax a mere existence out of life.

To those who knew him best—to Doctor Dempsy most of all—his condition seemed unexplainable. Here was a man who never drank, who never overfed, who smoked in moderation, whose life stood out conspicuously decent and clean against the possibilities of his environment. What lay back of this going to pieces? Doctor Dempsy had tried for a year to find out and had failed. To Peter, it was not unexplainable at all—he knew. Possessed of a constitution above the average, he had forced it to do the work of a mind far above the average, while he had denied it one of the three necessities of life and sanity. His will and reason had been powerless to help him—and now?

Because he had hated himself for hiding this knowledge from the man who had tried to do so much for him and wanted to make amends in some way—and because it was the easiest thing, after all, to agree—he let Doctor Dempsy pick out a sanitarium, make all arrangements, buy his ticket, and see him off. He drew the line at being personally conducted, however. Whether he went to a sanitarium or not did not matter; what mattered was how long would he stay and where would he go afterward. Or would there be an afterward? These were the questions that mulled through Peter’s mind on the train, and, coupled with the memory of the worried kindliness on Doctor Dempsy’s face, they were the only traveling companions Peter had. It was not to be wondered, therefore, that as he left the car and boarded the sanitarium omnibus he felt indescribably old, weary, and finished with things.

At first he thought he was the only passenger, but as the driver leisurely gathered up his reins and gave a cluck to the horses a girl’s voice rang out from the station, “Flanders—Flanders! Why, I believe you’re forgetting me.” And the next instant the girl herself appeared, suitcase in hand.

The driver grinned down a sheepish apology and Peter turned to hold the door open. She stood framed in the doorway for a moment while she lifted in her case, and for that moment Peter had conflicting impressions. He was conscious of a modest, nun-like appearance of clothes; the traveling-suit was gray, and the small gray hat had an encircling breast of white feathers. The lips had a quiet, demure curve; but the chin was determined, almost aggressive, while the gray eyes positively emitted sparks. The girl was not beautiful, she was luminous—and all the gray clothing in the world could not quench her. Peter found himself instantly wondering how anything so vitally alive and fresh to look at could be headed for a sanitarium with broken-down hulks like himself.

She caught Peter’s eye upon her and smiled. “If Flanders will hurry we’ll be there in time to see Hennessy feeding the swans,” she announced.

There was no response. Peter had suddenly lost the knack of it, along with other things. He could only look bewildered and a trifle more tired. But the girl must have understood it was only a temporary lack, for she did not draw in like a snail and dismiss Peter from her conscious horizon. She smiled again.

“I see. Newcomer?” And, nodding an affirmative to herself, she went sociably on: “Hennessy and the swans are symbolical. Couldn’t tell you why—not in a thousand years—but you’ll feel it for yourself after you’ve been here long enough. Hennessy hasn’t changed in fifteen years—maybe longer for those who can reckon longer. Same old blue jumper, same old tawny corduroys; if he ever had a new pair he’s kept them to himself. And the swans have changed less than Hennessy. If anything gets on your nerves here—treatment, doctors, nurses, anything—go and watch Hennessy. He’s the one sure, universal cure.”

The bus swung round the corner and brought the ivy-covered building into sight. The girl’s face grew lighter and lighter; in the shadow of the bus it seemed to Peter actually to shine. “Dear old San,” she said under her breath. “Heigh-ho! it’s good to get back!”

Before Peter could fathom any reason for this unaccountable rejoicing, the bus had stopped and the girl and suitcase had vanished. Wearily he came back to his own reason for being there, and docilely he allowed the porter to shoulder his luggage and conduct him within.

Three days passed—three days in which Peter thought little and felt much. He had been passed about among the staff of doctors very much like a delectable dish, and sampled by all. Half a dozen had taken him in hand. He had been apportioned a treatment, a diet, a bath hour, and a nurse. Looking back on those three days—and looking forward to a continuous protraction of the same—he could see less reason than ever for coaxing an existence out of life. Life meant to him work—efficient, telling work—and companionship—sharing with a congenial soul recreation, opinions, and meals—and some day, love. Well—what of these was left him? It was then that he remembered the gray girl’s advice in the omnibus and went out to find Hennessy and the swans.

His nurse was at supper, so he was mercifully free; moreover it was the emptiest time of day for out-of-doors. A few straggling patients were knocking prescribed golf-balls about the links, and a scattering of nurses were hurrying in with their wheel-chairs. Half-way between the links and the last building was the pond, shaded by pines and flanked by a miniature rustic rest-house, and thither Peter went. On a willow stump emerging from the pond he found Hennessy, as wrinkled as a butternut, with a thatch of gray hair, a mouth shirred into a small, open ellipse, and eyes full of irrepressible twinkles. He was seated tailor fashion on the stump, a tin platter of bread across his knees and the swans circling about him. He looked every whit as Irish as his name, and he was scolding and blarneying the birds by turn.

“Go-wan, there, ye feathered heathen! Can’t ye be lettin’ them that has good manners get a morsel once in a while? Faith, ye’ll be havin’ old Doc Willum afther ye with his stomach cure if ye don’t watch out.” He looked over his shoulder and caught Peter’s gaze. “Sure, birds or humans, they all have to be coaxed or scolded into keepin’ healthy, I’m thinkin’, and Hennessy’s head nurse to the swans,” he ended, with a chuckle.

But there was something quite different on Peter’s mind. “Has one of the patients—a young person in gray—been here lately? I mean have you seen her about any time?”

Hennessy shook a puzzled head. “A young gray patient, ye say? Sure there might be a hundred—that’s not over-distinguishin’. I leave it to ye, sir, just a gray patient is not over-distinguishin’.”

Peter reflected. “It was a quiet, cloister kind of gray, but her eyes were not—cloistered. They were the shiningest—”

A chuckle from Hennessy brought him to an abrupt finish. “Eyes? Gray? Patient? Ha, ha! Did ye hear that, Brian Boru?” and he flicked his cap at a gray swan. “Sure, misther, that’s no patient. ’Tis Leerie—herself.”

“Leerie?” The name sounded absurd to Peter, and slightly reminiscent of something, he could not tell what.

“Aye, Leerie. Real name, Sheila O’Leary—as good a name as Hennessy. But they named her Leerie her probation year. In course she’s Irish an’ not Scotch, an’ I never heard tell of a lass afore that went ’round a-lightin’ street lamps, but for all that the name fits. Ye mind grown-ups an’ childher alike watch for her to come ’round.”

“A nurse,” repeated Peter, dully.

“Aye. An’ she come back three days since, Heaven be praised! afther bein’ gone three years.”

“Three years,” repeated Peter again. “Why was she gone three years?”

Hennessy eyed him narrowly for a moment. “A lot of blitherin’ fools sent her away, that’s what, an’ she not much more than graduated. Suspension, they called it.”

“Suspension for what?”

The shirring in Hennessy’s lips tightened, and he drew his breath in and out in a sort of asthmatic whistle. This was the only sign of emotion ever betrayed by Hennessy. When he spoke again he fairly whistled his words. “If ye want to know what for—ye can ask some one else. Good night.” And with a bang to the platter Hennessy was away before Peter could stop him.

Alone with the swans, Peter lingered a moment to consider. A nurse. The gray person a nurse! And sent away for some—some—Peter’s mind groped inadequately for a reason. Pshaw! He could smile at the absurdity of his interest. What did it matter—or she matter—or anything matter? For a man who has been given up, who has been sent away to a sanitarium to finish with life as speedily and decently as he can, to stand on one leg by a pond, for all the world like a swan himself, and wonder about a girl he had seen but once, in a sanitarium omnibus, was absurd. And the name Leerie? Of course they had taken it from Stevenson, but it suited. Yes, Hennessy was right, it certainly suited.

A rustle of white skirts coming down the path attracted his attention. It was his nurse, through supper, coming like a commandant to take him in charge. Thirty-seven, in a sanitarium, with a nurse attendant! Peter groaned inwardly. It was monstrous, a cowardly, blackguard attack of an unthinking Creator on a human being—a decent human being—who might be—who wanted to be—of some use in the world. For a breath he wanted to roar forth blasphemy after blasphemy against the universe and its Maker, but in the next breath he suddenly realized how little he cared. With a smile almost tragically senile, he let the nurse lead him away.

And all the while a girl was leaning over the sill of the little rest-house, watching him. It was a girl with a demure mouth, a determined chin, and eyes that shone, who answered impartially to the names of Sheila, Miss O’Leary, or Leerie. The gray was changed for the white uniform and cap of a graduate nurse, and the change was becoming. She had recognized him at first with casual amusement as she watched him fill her prescription of Hennessy and the swans, but after Hennessy had gone she watched him with all the intuitive sympathy of her womanhood and the understanding of her profession. Not one of the emotions that swept Peter’s face but registered full on the girl’s sensibilities: the illuminating interest in something, bewilderment, hopelessness, despair, agony, and a final weary surrender to the inevitable—they were all there. But it was the strange, haunting look in the deep-set eyes that made the girl sit up, alert and curious.

“’Phobia,” she said, softly, under her breath. “Not over-fed liver or alcoholic heart, but ’phobia, I’ll wager, poor childman! Wonder how the doctors have diagnosed him!”

She learned how a few days later when Miss Maxwell, the superintendent of nurses, stopped her in the second-floor corridor. “My dear, I should like to change you from Madam Courot to another case for a few days. Miss Jacobs is on now and—”

“Coppy?” Sheila O’Leary broke in abruptly, a smile of amusement breaking the demureness of her lips. “Needn’t explain, Miss Max. I see. Young male patient, unattached. Frequent pulse-takings and cerebral massage, with late evening strolls in the pine woods. Business office takes notice and a change of nurse recommended. Poor Coppy—ripping nurse! If only she wouldn’t grow flabby every time a pair of masculine eyes are focused her way!”

“But it wasn’t the business office this time.” Miss Maxwell herself smiled as she made the statement. “It was the patient himself. He asked for a change.”

“A man that’s a man for all he’s a patient. God bless his soul!” and a look of sudden radiant delight swept the girl’s face. “What’s he here for? Jilting chorus-girl—fatty degeneration of his check-book?”

The superintendent shook her head. “He doesn’t happen to be that kind. He’s a newspaper-man—a personal friend of Doctor Dempsy’s. Overwork, he thinks, and for a year he’s been trying to put him back on his feet. It’s a case of nerves, with nothing discoverable back of it so far as he can see, but he wants us to try. Doctor Nichols has analyzed him; teeth have been X-rayed; eyes, nose, and throat gone over. There’s nothing radically wrong with stomach or kidneys; heart shows nervous affection, nothing more. He ought to be fit physically and he isn’t. Miss Jacobs reports a maximum of an hour’s sleep in twenty-four. Doctor Dempsy writes it’s a case for a nurse, not a doctor, and the most tactful, intuitive nurse we have in the sanitarium. Please take it, Leerie.”

The girl stiffened under the two hands placed on her shoulders, while something indescribably baffling and impenetrable took possession of her whole being. Her voice became almost curt. “Sorry, can’t. Bargain, you know. Wouldn’t have come back at all if you hadn’t promised I should not be asked to take those cases.”

“I’ll not ask you to take another, but you know how I feel about any patient Doctor Dempsy sends to us. Anything I can do means paying back a little on the great debt I owe him, the debt of a wonderful training. That’s why I ask—this once.” A look almost fanatical came into the face of the superintendent.

The girl smiled wistfully up at her. “Wish I could! Honest I do, Miss Max! I’d fight for the life of any patient under the old San roof—man, woman, or child; but I’ll not baby-tend unhealthy-minded young men. You know as well as I how it’s always been: they lose their heads and I my temper—results, the same. I end by telling them just what I think; they pay their bills and leave the same day. The San loses a perfectly good annual patient, and the business office feels sore at me. No, I’m no good at frequent pulses and cerebral massage; leave that to Coppy.”

There was no stinging sarcasm in the girl’s voice. She reached out an impulsive hand and slipped it into one of the older woman’s, leaving it there long enough to give it a quick, firm grip. “Remember, it’s only three years—and it takes so little to set tongues wagging again. So let’s stick fast to the bargain, dear; only nervous old ladies or the bad surgical cases.”

“Very well. Only—if you could change your mind, let me know. In the mean time I’ll put Miss Saunders on,” and the superintendent turned away, troubled and unsatisfied.

An hour later Sheila O’Leary came upon Miss Saunders with her new patient, and the patient was the man of the omnibus—the man with the haunting, deep-set eyes. Unnoticed, she watched them sitting on a bench by the pond, the nurse droning aloud from a book, the man sagging listlessly, plainly hearing nothing and seeing nothing. The picture set Sheila O’Leary shuddering. If it was a case of ’phobia, God help the poor man with Saunders coupled to his nerves! Cumbersome, big-hearted, and hopelessly dull, Saunders was incapable of nursing with tactful insight a nerve-racked man. In the whole wide realm of disease there seemed nothing more tragic to Sheila than a victim of ’phobia. It turned normal men and women into pitiful children, afraid of the dark, groping out for the hand to reassure them, to put heart and courage back in them again—the hand that nine cases out of ten never reaches them in time.

With an impulsive toss of her head, Sheila O’Leary swung about in her tracks. She would break her own bargain for this once. She would go to Miss Max and ask to be put on the case. Here was a soul sick unto death with a fear of something, and Saunders was nursing it! What did it matter if it was a man or a dog, as long as she could get into the dark after him and show him the way out! Her resolve held to the point of branching paths, and there she stopped to consider again.

Peter’s eyes were on the swans; there was nothing to the general droop of the shoulders, the thrust-forward bend of the neck, the hollowing of the smooth-shaven cheeks, and the graying of the hair above the temples to write him other than an average overworked or habitually harassed business man here for rest and treatment. If Sheila was mistaken—if there was no abnormal mental condition back of it all, no legitimate reason for not holding fast to the compact she had made three years before with herself to leave men—young, old, or middle-aged—out of her profession, what a fool she would feel! She balanced the paths and her judgment for a second, then decided in favor of the bargain. So Peter was left to the ministrations of Saunders.

That night the unexpected happened, unexpected as far as the sanitarium, the superintendent of nurses, and Sheila O’Leary were concerned. How unexpected it was to Peter depends largely on whether it was the result of a decision on his part to stop coaxing existence—or a desire to escape permanently from Saunders—or merely an accident. However, Sheila O’Leary was called in the middle of the night, when she was sleeping so soundly that it took the combined efforts of the superintendent and the head night nurse to shake her awake. As she hurried into her uniform they gave her the bare details. Somehow the doors of the sun-parlor had not been fastened as usual, and a patient had stayed up there after lights were out. He had tried to find his way to the lift, had slipped the fastenings of the door in his effort to locate the bell, and had fallen four stories, to the top of the lift itself. The whole accident was unbelievable, unprecedented. They might find some plausible explanation in the morning—but in the mean time the patient was in the operating-room and Sheila O’Leary was to report at once for night duty.

As the girl pinned on her cap the superintendent whispered the last instructions: “You’ll find him in Number Three, Surgical. It’s one of your fighting cases, Leerie, and it’s Doctor Dempsy’s patient. Remember, your best work this time, girl, for all our sakes!”

And it was a fighting case. Innumerable nights followed, all alike. The temperature rose and fell a little, only to rise again; the pulse strengthened and weakened by turns; delirium continued unbroken. As night after night wore on and no fresh sign of internal injury developed, the girl found herself forgetting the immediate condition of the patient and going back to the thing that had brought him here. If she was right and he was possessed by a fixed idea, the dread of some concrete thing or experience, his delirium showed no evidence. It seemed more the delirium of exhaustion than fever, and there was no raving. Consciousness, however, might reveal what delirium hid, so, as the nights slipped monotonously by, the girl found herself waiting with a growing eagerness for the man to come back to himself.

The waiting seemed interminable, but a time came at last when Sheila slipped through the door of No. 3 and found a pair of deep-set, haunting eyes turned full upon her.

“It’s—it’s Leerie.” The words came with some difficulty, but there was an untold relief in Peter’s voice.

For a moment the girl was taken aback, but only for a moment. She laughed him a friendly little laugh while she put her hand down to the hand that was still too weak to reach out in greeting. “Yes. Oh yes, it’s Leerie. Been getting pretty well acquainted with you these weeks, but rather a surprise to find it so—so mutual.”

“I got acquainted with you—beforehand,” announced Peter.

“I see—omnibus, Hennessy, and the swans.” She laughed again softly. “You’ve been away a long time; hope you’re glad to get back.”

Peter reflected. “I’m afraid I’m not. But I’ll not say it if it sounds too much like a quitter.”

“No, say it and get it out of your system. Getting well always seems a terrible undertaking; and the stronger you’ve been the harder it seems.” Sheila turned to her chart and preparations for the night.

Lights out, she sat down by the open window to wait for Peter to sleep. An hour passed, two hours, and sleep did not come. She fed him hot milk and he still lay open-eyed, almost rigid, staring straight at the ceiling. At midnight she stole out for her own supper in the diet-kitchen and found him still awake when she returned, the haunting eyes looking more child’s than man’s in the dimness of the night lamp. Had she been free to follow her most vagrant impulse, she would have climbed on the head of the bed, taken the bandaged head on her lap, and plunged into the most enthralling tale of boy adventure her imagination could compass. But she hounded off the impulse, after the fashion of treating all vagrants, and went back to the window to wait and wonder. Peter was still awake when the gray of the morning crept down the corridors of the Surgical.

Sheila questioned Tyler, the day nurse, as she came off duty the next evening, “Number Three sleep any to boast of?”

“Why, no! Didn’t he sleep well last night?”

She gave a non-committal shrug and passed into the room. He was watching for her coming, and a ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. She couldn’t remember having seen even so much of a smile before.

“It’s—it’s Leerie.” He said it just as he had the night before. But there was a strange, wistful appeal in the voice which set Sheila wondering afresh.

“Gorgeous night, full of stars, and air like wine. Smell the verbena and thyme from the San gardens?” Sheila threw back her head and sniffed the air like a wild thing. “Took me a month to trail that smell—be sure of it. You only get it at night after a light rain. Take some long breaths of it and you’ll be asleep before lights are out.”

But he was not. He lay rigid as the night before, his eyes staring straight before him. Sheila remembered a description she had read once of a mountain guide who had been caught on the edge of a landslide and hung for hours over the abyss, clutching a half-felled tree and trying to keep awake until help came. The man she was nursing might almost be living through such an agony of mind and body, afraid to yield up his consciousness lest he should go plunging off into some horrible abyss. What did he fear? Was it sleep? Was somnophobia what lay behind the wrecking of this fine, clean manhood? The thing seemed incredible, and yet—and yet—

Before dawn crept again into the Surgical, the mind of Sheila O’Leary was made up. Peter was suddenly aware that the nurse was close at his bedside, chafing the clenched fingers free. It was that mysterious hour that hangs between the going night and coming day, the most non-resisting time for body and mind, when the human will gives up the struggle if it gives it up at all. And Sheila O’Leary, being well aware of this, rubbed the tense nerves into a comfortable state of relaxation and talked.

First she talked of the city, and found he was not city-born. Then she talked of the country—of South, East, and West—and located his birthplace in a small New England village. She talked of the outdoor freedom of a country boy, of the wholesome work and fun on a farm with a large family and good old-fashioned parents, and she found that he had been an only child, motherless, with a family consisting of a misanthropic, grief-stricken father and a hired girl. His voice sounded toneless and more tired than ever as he spoke of his childhood.

“Lonely?” queried Sheila.

“Perhaps.”

“Neglected and—frightened?”

“What do you mean?”

The girl leaned over the bed and looked straight into the eyes that seemed to be daring her to find the way into his darkness and at the same time barring fast the door against her coming. She smiled gently. “Tell me—can you remember when you first began to fear sleep?”

There was no denial, no protest. Peter sighed as a little worn-out boy might have sighed with the irksome concealment of some forbidden act. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I can’t think back to a time when I wasn’t afraid—afraid of the dropping out, into the dark. God!” He turned his head away, and for the first time in two weary, wakeful nights Sheila saw him close his eyes.

Off duty, instead of going to breakfast and bed, Sheila O’Leary went to the office of the superintendent of nurses. In her usual fashion she came straight to her point. “Put Saunders back on Number Three and give me a couple of days off. Please, Miss Max.”

Her abruptness shook the almost unshakable calm of Miss Maxwell. She gazed at the girl in frank amazement. “May I ask why?” There was a kindly irony in the question.

“Sounds queer, I know, but I’ve simply got to go. Lots depends on it, and no time now to explain. Want to catch that eight-thirty-five; Flanders is holding the bus. Tell you when I get back—please, Miss Max?” And taking consent for granted, Sheila started for the door.

There was an odd look on the face of the superintendent as she watched her go—a look of amused, loving pride. She might hide it from their little world, but she could not deny it to herself, that of all the girls she had helped to train, none had come so close to her heart as this girl with her wonderful insight, her honesty, her plain speaking, and her heart of gold. A hundred times she had defied the rules of the sanitarium, had swept the superintendent’s dignity to the four winds. And she would continue to do so, and they would continue to overlook it. Such petty offenses are forgiven the Leeries the world over. And now, watching the gray, alive figure climbing into the omnibus, Miss Maxwell had no mind to resent her breach of discipline. She knew the girl had asked nothing for herself; she had gone to do something for somebody who needed it, and she would report for duty again when that was accomplished.

And two days later, accordingly, she came, a luminous, ecstatic figure that flew into the office with arms outstretched to swing the superintendent almost off her feet in joyful triumph. “It was just what I thought! Found the girl—only she is an old woman now—got the whole miserable story from her, and—and—I think—I think—Good heart alive! I think I can pull him out of the beastly old hole!”

“Meaning—? Remember, my dear, I haven’t the grain of an idea why you went, or where you went, or what the miserable story is about. Please shine your lantern this way and light up my intelligence.” Miss Maxwell was beaming.

Sheila O’Leary laughed. “I began by jumping at conclusions—same as I always do—jumped at ’phobia in Number Three. Almost came and asked to be put on the case after you told me. But he isn’t Number Three any more—he’s a little boy named Peter—a little boy, almost a baby, frightened night after night for years and years into lying still in the dark under the eaves in a little attic room, deliberately frightened by a hired girl who wanted to be free to go off gadding with her young man. I got the place and her name from Peter—coaxed it out of him—and I made her tell me the story. The father paid her extra wages to stay at night so the little boy wouldn’t be lonely and miss his mother too much, and she didn’t want him to find out she had gone. So she’d put Peter to bed and tell him that if he stirred or cried out the walls would close in on him—or the floor would swallow him up—or the ghosts would come out of the corners and eat him up or carry him off. Can’t you see him there, a little quivering heap of a boy, awake in the dark, afraid to move? Can’t you feel how he would lie and listen to all the sounds about him—the squealing mice, the creaking rafters, the wind moaning in the eaves—too terrified to go to sleep? And when he did sleep—worn out—can’t you imagine what his dreams would be like? Oh, women like that—women who could frighten little sensitive children—ought to be burned as they burned the witches!” The girl’s eyes blazed and she shook a pair of clenched fists into the air. “And can you see the rest of it? How the fear grew and grew even as the memory of the tales faded, grew into a nameless, unexplainable fear of sleep? And because he was a boy he hid it; and because he was a man he fought it; but the thing nailed him at last. He fought sleep until he lost the habit of sleep. He couldn’t get along without it, and here he is!”

“Well, what are you going to do?” The superintendent eyed her narrowly; her cheeks were as flushed as the girl’s.

A little enigmatical smile curved up the corners of the usually demure mouth. “Going to play Leerie—going to play it harder than I ever did in my life before.”

And that night as Peter turned his head wearily toward the door to greet the kindly, cumbersome Saunders, he found, to his surprise, the owner of the shining eyes come back. He felt so ridiculously glad about it that he couldn’t even trust himself to tell her so. Instead he repeated foolishly the same old thing, “Why, it’s—it’s Leerie!”

When everything was ready for the night, Sheila turned the night-light out and lowered the curtain until it was quite dark. Then she drew her chair close to the bed and slipped her hand into the lean, clenched one on the coverlid. “Don’t think of me as a girl—a nurse—a person—at all, to-night,” she said, softly. “I’m just a piece of Stevenson’s poem come to life—a lamplighter for a little boy going to sleep all alone in a farm-house attic. It’s very dark. You can hear the mice squeal and the rafters creak, if you listen, and the window’s so small the stars can’t creep in. In the daytime the attic doesn’t seem far away or very strange, but at night it’s miles—miles away from the rest of the house, and it’s full of things that may happen. That’s why I’m here with my lamp.”

Sheila stopped a moment. She could hear the man’s breath coming quick, with a catch in it—a child breathes that way when it is fighting down a cry or a sob. Then she went on: “Of course it’s a magical lamp I carry, and with the first sputter and spark it lights up and turns the attic inside out—and there we are, the little boy and I, hand in hand, running straight for the brook back of the house. The lamp burns as bright as the sun now, so it seems like day—a spring day. It isn’t the mice squealing at all that you hear, but the birds singing and the brook running. There are cowslips down by the brook, and ‘Jacks.’ Here by the big stone is a chance to build a bully good dam and sailboats made out of the shingles blown off from the barn roof. Want to stop and build it now?”

“All right.” There was almost a suppressed laugh in the voice; it certainly sounded glad. And the hand on the coverlid was as relaxed as that of a child being led somewhere it wants to go.

Sheila smiled happily in the dark: “You must get stones, then—lots and lots of them—and we’ll pile them together. There’s one stone—and two stones—and three stones. Another stone here—another here—another here—a big one there where the current runs swiftest, and little stones for the chinks.”

According to Sheila O’Leary’s best reckoning the dam was only half built when the little boy fell fast asleep over his work. And when the gray of the morning stole down the corridors of the Surgical, No. 3 was sleeping, with one arm thrown over his head as little boys sleep, and the other holding fast to the nurse on night duty.

But it takes a long while to break down an old habit and build up a new one, as it takes a long while to build a dam. No less than tons of stones must have gone to the building of Peter’s before the time came when he could drop asleep alone and unguided. In all that time neither he nor the girl ever spoke of what lay between the putting out of the night lamp and the waking fresh and rested to a welcomed day.

With sleep came speedy recovery, and Peter was the most popular convalescent in the Surgical. His laugh had suddenly grown contagious, his humor irresistible, his outlook on life so optimistically bubbling that less cheery patients turned their wheel-chairs to No. 3 for revitalizing. The chief came up with Doctor Dempsy from town, and both went away wearing the look of men who have seen miracles. Life in its fullness had come to Peter, the life he had dreamed of, as a lost crosser of the desert dreams of water. Efficient work was to be his again, and companionship, and—yes, for the first time he hoped for the third and best of life’s ingredients—he hoped for love.

And then, just as everything looked best and brightest, he was told that he no longer needed a night nurse. Sheila O’Leary was put on the case of an old lady with chronic dyspepsia. She told him herself, as she went off duty in the Surgical for the last time.

“You’ve had the best sleep of all.” She smiled at his efforts to pull himself awake. “I’ll drop in when I’m passing, to see how you’re getting on, but otherwise this is good-by and good luck.” She held out her hand.

“Why—but—Hang it all! I can’t get along without a night nurse. And if I don’t need one, why can’t you take Miss Tyler’s place in the day?”

“Orders.” Sheila announced it as an unshakable fact.

“I’ll see Miss Maxwell.”

“No use. She wouldn’t listen.”

“Guess if I’m paying for it I can have—”

Sheila O’Leary’s chin squared and her body stiffened. “There are some things no one can pay for, Mr. Brooks.”

Peter colored crimson. He reached quickly for the hand Sheila had pulled away. “What an ungrateful cur you must think I am! And I’ve never said a word—never thanked you.”

“There was nothing to thank for. I was only undoing what another woman had done long ago. That’s one of the glad things about nursing; we so often have a chance at just that sort of thing—the chance to make up for some of the blind mistakes in life. Good-by. I’m late now.”

“But—but—” Peter held frantically to the hand. “’Pon my soul, I can’t let you go until—until—” He broke off, crimsoning again. “Promise a time when you will come back—just a minute I can count on and look forward to. Please!”

“All right—I’ll be back at four—just for a minute.”

It happened, however, that Miss Jacobs—pink-cheeked, auburn-haired, green-eyed little Miss Jacobs, the first nurse on Peter’s case, blew into No. 3 a few minutes before four. She had developed the habit of blowing in at least once in the day and telling Peter how perfectly splendid it was to see him getting along so well. But as he did not happen to look quite so well this time, she condoled and wormed the reason out of Peter.

“Leerie off duty! Don’t you think it’s rather remarkable they let her stay so long? Of course the management, as a rule, doesn’t let her have cases of—of this kind. A girl who’s been sent away on account of—of—questionable conduct isn’t exactly safe to trust. Don’t you think so? And the San can’t afford to risk its reputation.” For an instant the green eyes shimmered and glistened balefully, while she tossed her auburn curls coyly at Peter. “It’s really too bad, for she’s a wonderful surgical nurse. All the best surgeons want her on their cases. That’s why they put her on with you; that’s really why they let her come back at all.”

A look in Peter’s eyes stopped her and made her look back over her shoulder. Sheila O’Leary stood in the open doorway. For an instant the perpetual assurance of Miss Jacobs was shaken, but only for an instant. She smiled tolerantly. “Hello, Leerie! I’ve been telling Mr. Brooks what a wonderful surgical nurse you are.”

The gray eyes of the girl in the doorway looked steadily into the green eyes of the girl by the bed. “Thank you, Coppy, I heard you.” And she stepped aside to let the other pass out.

“Well?” she asked when the two were alone.

“Well!” answered Peter, emphatically. “Everything is very, very well. Do you know,” and he smiled up at her like a happy small boy—“do you know that all the while you were building that dam I was building something else?”

“Were you?”

“I was building my life over again—building it fresh, with the fear gone and everything sound and strong and fine. And into the chinks where all the miserable empty places had been—the places where loneliness and heartache eternally leaked through—I was fitting love, the love I never dared dream of.”

“Yes?”

The girl’s lips looked strangely hard—almost bitter, Peter thought; and this time he reached out both arms to her.

“Hang it all! It’s tough on a man who’s never dared dream of love to have it take him, bandaged and tied to his bed. Leerie—Leerie! You wouldn’t have the heart to blow out the lamp now, would you?”

The lips softened, she gave a sad little shake of her head. “No, but you’ve got to keep it burning yourself. You’re a man; you can do it. Sorry—can’t help it. And please don’t say anything more. Don’t spoil it all, and make me say things I wish I hadn’t and send you off to pay your bill and leave the San to-night.” She smiled wistfully. “Dear, grown-up boy! Don’t you know that it’s the customary thing for a man to think he’s fallen in love with his nurse when he’s convalescing? Just get well and forget it—as all the others do.” She turned toward the door.

“I’m not going to pay my bill to-night, and I’m not going to forget it. I guess all those chinks haven’t been filled up yet. I’m going to stay until they are. Good plan, don’t you think?” And Peter Brooks smiled like a man who had never been given up—nor ever intended giving up, now that life had given him back the things for which he had a right to fight.

Chapter II

OLD KING COLE

Hennessy was feeding the swans. Sheila O’Leary leaned over the sill of the diminutive rustic rest-house and watched him with a tired contentment. She had just come off a neurasthenic case—a week of twenty-four-hour duty—and she wanted to stretch her cramped sensibilities in the quiet peace of the little house and invite her soul with a glimpse of Hennessy and the swans.

All about her the grounds of the sanitarium were astir with its customary crowd of early-summer-afternoon patients. How those first warm days called the sick folks out-of-doors and held them there until the last beam of sunshine had disappeared behind the foremost hill! The tennis-courts were full; the golf-links were dotted about with spots of color like a cubist picture; pairs of probationers, arm in arm, were strolling about, enjoying a comparative leisure; old Madam Courot was at her customary place under the juniper, watching the sun go down. Three years! Nothing seemed changed in all that time but the patients—and not all of these, as Madame Courot silently testified. The pines shook themselves above the rest-house in the same lazy, vagabond fashion, the sun purpled the far hills and spun the same yellow haze over the links, the wind brought its habitual afternoon accompaniment of cow-bells from the sanitarium farm, and Hennessy threw the last crumb of bread to Brian Boru, the gray swan, as he had done for the fifteen years Sheila could remember.

She folded her arms across the sill and rested her chin on them. How good it was to be back at the old San, to settle down to its kindly, comfortable ways and the peace of its setting after the feverish restlessness of city hospitals! She remembered what Kipling had said, that the hill people who came down to the plains were always hungering to get back to the hills again. That was the way she had felt about it—always a hunger to come back. For months and months she had thought that she might forever have to stay in those hospitals, have to make up her mind to the eternal plains—and then had come her reprieve—she had been called back to the San and the work she loved best.

Had the place been any other than the sanitarium, and the person any other than Sheila O’Leary, this would never have happened. For she had left under a cloud, and in similar cases a cloud, once gathered, grows until it envelops, suffocates, and finally annihilates the person. As a graduate nurse she would have ceased to exist. But in spite of the most blighting circumstances, those who counted most believed in her and trusted her. They had only waited for time to forget and tongues to stop wagging, and then they had called her back. Perhaps the strangest thing about it was that Sheila did not look like a person who could have had even the smallest, fleeciest of clouds brushing her most distant horizon. In fact, so vital, warm, and glowing was her personality, so radiant her nature, that she seemed instead a permanent dispeller of clouds.

From across the pond Hennessy watched her with adoring eyes as he gave his habitual, final bang to the bread-platter and the hitch to his corduroys preparatory to leaving. To his way of thinking, there was no nurse enrolled on the books of the old San who could compare with her. In the beginning he had prophesied great things of her to Flanders, the bus-driver. “Ye mind what I’m tellin’ ye,” he had said. “Afore she’s finished her trainin’ she’ll have more lads a-dandtherin’ round her than if she’d been the King of Ireland’s only daughter. Ye can take my word for it, when she leaves here, ’twill be a grand home of her own she’ll be goin’ to an’ no dirty hospital.”

That had been three years ago, and Hennessy sighed now over the utter futility of his words. “Sure, who could have been seein’ that one o’ the lads would have turned blackguard? Hennessy knows. Just give the lass time for that hurt to heal, an’ she’ll be winnin’ a home of her own, after all.” This he muttered to himself as he took the path leading toward the rest-house.

Sheila saw him coming, his lips shirred to the closeness of some emotional strain. “Hello, Hennessy! What’s troubling?” she called down the path.

“Faith, it’s Mr. Peter Brooks that’s troublin’. ’Tis a week, now, that ye’ve been off that case—an’ he’s near cured. Another week now—”

“In another week he’ll be going back to his work—and I’ll be very glad.”

Hennessy eyed the girl narrowly. “Will ye, then? Why did ye cure him up so fast for, Miss Leerie? Why didn’t ye give the poor man a chance?”

No one but Hennessy would have had sufficient temerity for such a question, but had any one dared to ask it, upon their heads would have fallen the combined anger and bitterness of Sheila’s tongue. For having had occasion once for bitterness, it was not over-hard to waken it when men served as topics. But at Hennessy she smiled tolerantly. “Didn’t I give him a chance to get well? That was all he needed or wanted. And, now he’s well, he’ll go about his business.”

“Faith,” and Hennessy closed a suggestive eye, “that depends on what he takes to be his business. In my young days the choosin’ an’ courtin’ of a wife was the big part of a man’s business. Now if he comes round askin’ my opinion—”

“Tell him, Hennessy”—and Sheila fixed him firmly with a glance—“that the sanitarium does not encourage its cured patients to hang about bothering its nurses. It is apt to make trouble for the nurses. Understand?”

Again Hennessy closed one eye; then he laughed. “When ye talk of devils ye’re sure to smell brimstone. There comes Mr. Brooks now, an’ he has his head back like a dog trailin’ the wind.”

The girl turned and followed Hennessy’s jerking thumb with her eyes. Across the pine grove, coming toward them, was a young man above medium height, square-shouldered and erect. There was nothing startlingly handsome nor remarkable about his appearance; he was just nice, strong, clean-looking. He waved to the two by the rest-house.

“And do ye mind his looks when he came!” Hennessy’s tone denoted wonder and admiration.

“A human wreck—haunted at that.” There was a good deal more than mere professional interest in Sheila’s tone; there was pride and something else. It was past Hennessy’s perceptive powers to define what, but he noticed it, nevertheless, and looked sharply up at the girl.

“For the love o’ Mike, Miss Leerie! Why can’t ye stop ticketin’ each man as a case an’ begin thinkin’ about them human-like? Ye might begin practisin’ wi’ Mr. Brooks.”

The line of Sheila’s lips became fixed; the chin that could look so demure, the eyes that could look so soft and gentle, both backed up the lips in an expression of inscrutable hardness.

“In the name of your patron saint, Hennessy, what have you said to Miss Leerie to turn her into that sphinx again?” The voice of Peter Brooks was as nice as his appearance.

Hennessy looked foolish. “I was tellin’ her, then,” he moistened his lips to allow a safer emigration of words—“I was tellin’ her—that the gray swan had the rheumatism in his left leg, an’ I was askin’ her, did she think Doctor Willum would prescribe a thermo bath for him. I’d best be askin’ him meself, maybe,” and with a sudden pull at his forelock Hennessy backed away down the path.

Peter Brooks watched him depart with an admiration equal to that with which Hennessy had welcomed him. “That man has a wonderful insight into human nature. Now I was just wishing I could have you all alone for about—”

Sheila interrupted him. “I hope you weren’t counting on too many minutes. I can see Miss Maxwell coming down the San steps, and I have a substantial feeling that she’s looking for me to put me on another case.”

“Couldn’t we escape? Couldn’t we skip round by the farm to the garage and get my car? You look fagged out. A couple of hours’ ride would do wonders for you, and—Good Lord! The San can run that long without your services. What do you say? Shall we beat it?”

With a telltale, pent-up eagerness he noticed the girl’s indecision and flung himself with all his persuasive powers to turn the balance in his favor. “Do come. You can work better and harder for a little time off now and then. All the other nurses take it. Why under the heavens can’t a man ever persuade you to have a little pleasure?” Something in Sheila’s face stopped him and prompted the one argument that could have persuaded her. “If you’ll only come, Leerie, I’ll promise to keep dumb—absolutely dumb. I’ll promise not to spoil the ride for you.”

Sheila flung him a radiant smile; it almost unbalanced him and murdered his resolve. “Then I’ll come. You’re the first man I ever knew who could keep his word—that way. Hurry! we’ll have to run for it.” And taking the lead, she ducked through the little door of the rest-house and ran, straight as the crow flies, to the hiding shelter of the farm.

But her premonition was correct. When she returned two hours later in the cool of a summer’s twilight, with eyes that sparkled like iridescent pools and lips that smiled generously her gratitude to the man who could keep his word, she found the superintendent of nurses watching from the San steps for their car.

“All right, Miss Maxwell,” she nodded in response to the question that was plainly stamped on the superintendent’s face. “We’ve had supper—don’t even have to change my uniform.” Then to Peter, “Thank you.”

The words were meager enough, but Peter Brooks had already received his compensation in the girl’s glowing face. “It’s ‘off again, on again, gone again,’ in your profession, too. Well, here’s looking forward to the next escape.” His laugh rang with health and good spirits.

Sheila stopped on her way up the steps, turned and looked back at him. The wonder of his recovery often surprised even herself. It seemed incredible that this pulsing, vitalized portion of humanity could have once been a veritable husk, hounded by a haunting fear into a state of hopelessness and loathing of existence. Life certainly tingled in Peter now, and every time Sheila felt it, man or no man, she could not help rejoice with all her heart at the thing she had helped to do.

Peter’s smile met hers half-way in the dusk. “It may be another week before I see you again. In case—I’d like to tell you that I’m staying on indefinitely. The chief has pushed me out of my Sunday section and has sent me a lot of special articles to do up here. He thinks I had better not come back until I’m all fit.”

“You’re perfectly fit now.” There was a brutal frankness in the girl’s words.

Peter had grown used to these moments. They no longer troubled or hurt him. He had begun to understand. “Maybe I am; I feel so, but you can never tell. Then there’s always the danger of one’s heart going back on one. That’s why I’ve decided to stay on and coddle mine. Rather good plan?”

Sheila O’Leary vouchsafed no answer. She disappeared through the entrance of the sanitarium, leaving Peter Brooks still smiling. Neither his expression nor position had changed a few seconds later when Miss Jacobs touched him on the arm.

“Oh, Mr. Brooks! Were you the guilty party—running away with Leerie? For the last two hours we’ve been combing the San grounds for her.” The green eyes of the flirtatious nurse gleamed peculiarly catlike in the dusk. “Of course I don’t suppose my opinion counts so very much with you,” there was a honeyed, self-deprecatory quality in the girl’s tone, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t go about so awfully much with Leerie. She’s a dear girl—I don’t suppose it’s really her fault—but she had such a record. And you know it’s my creed that girls of that kind can compromise poor men far oftener than men compromise girls. Oh, I do hope you understand what I mean!”

Peter still wore a smile, but it was a different smile. It was as much like the old one as a search-light is like sunshine. He focused it full on Miss Jacobs’s face. “I’m a shark at understanding. And don’t worry about me. I’m more of a shark in deep water with—with sirens.” He chuckled inwardly at the look of blank incomprehension on the nurse’s face. “By the way, just what did you want Miss Leary for? Not another accident?”

The girl gave her head a disgusted toss. “Oh, they want her to help an old man die. He came up here a week ago. I saw him then, and he looked ready to burst. Doctor MacByrn said he weighed over three hundred and had a blood pressure of two hundred and ten. They can’t bring it down, and his heart is about done for. Leerie always gets those dying cases. Ugh!” The girl shuddered. “Guess they wouldn’t put me on any of those sure-dead cases; it’s bad enough when you happen on them.”

Peter shot her a pitying glance and walked back to his car. He was just climbing in when the girl’s voice chirped back to him. “Just the night for a ride, isn’t it? I couldn’t think of letting you go all alone and be lonesome. Isn’t it lucky I’m off duty till ten!”

“Lucky for the patient!” Peter mumbled under his breath; then aloud: “Sorry, but I’m unlucky. Only enough gasoline to get her back to the garage. Good night.” He swung the car free of the curb, leaving little red-headed, green-eyed Miss Jacobs in the process of gathering up her skirts and mounting into thin air.

Meanwhile Sheila had followed the superintendent to her office. “It’s a case of cerebral hemorrhages. The man is no fool; he knows his condition, and he’s been getting increasingly hard to take care of every minute since he found out. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s Brandle, the coal magnate. Quite alone in the world; no children, and his wife died some few years ago. He’s very peculiar, and no one seems to know what to say to him or do for him. I’m a little afraid—” and the superintendent paused to consider her words before committing herself. “I think perhaps there have been too many offers of prayers and scriptural readings for his taste.”

“Probably he’d prefer the last Town Topics or the latest detective story.” Sheila shook her head violently. “Why can’t a man be allowed to die the way he chooses—instead of your way, or my way, or the Reverend Mr. Grumble’s way?”

“Miss Barry is on the case now, and I’m afraid he’s shocked her into—”

“Perpetual devotion.” Sheila grinned sympathetically as she completed the sentence. They had called her Prayer-Book Barry her probation year because of her unswerving religious point of view, and her years of training had only served to increase it. The picture of anything as sensitively pious as Prayer-Book Barry helping a coal magnate to depart this temporal world in his own chosen fashion was too much for Sheila’s sense of the grotesque. She threw back her head and laughed. Peal after peal rang out and over the transom of the superintendent’s office just as Miss Jacobs passed.

It took no great powers of penetration to identify the laugh; a look of satisfaction crept into the green eyes. “Quite dramatic and brutally unfeeling I call it,” she murmured. “But it will make an entertaining story to tell Mr. Brooks. He thinks Leerie is such a little tinseled saint.”

Ten minutes later Sheila O’Leary followed Miss Maxwell into the large tower room of the sanitarium to relieve Miss Barry from duty. As she took her first look from the doorway she almost forgot herself and laughed again. The room might have been a scene set for a farce or a comic opera.

Propped up in bed, with multitudinous pillows about him, was a very mammoth of a man in heliotrope-silk pajamas. His face was as round and full and bucolic as a poster advertising some specific brew of beer. Surmounting the face was a sparse fringe of white hair standing erect, while an isolated lock mounted guard over a receding forehead. It was evident that the natural expression of the face was good-natured, indulgent, easygoing, but at the moment of Sheila’s entrance it was contorted into something that might have served for a cartoon of a choleric full moon. The eyes were rolling frantically in every direction but that from which the presumable infliction came, for seated at the bedside, with a booklet of evening prayer open on her lap, was Miss Barry, reading aloud in a sweet, gentle voice.

Miss Barry did not stop until she had finished her paragraph. The cessation of her voice brought the roving eyes to a standstill; then they flew straight to Miss Maxwell in abject appeal. “Take it away, ma’am. Don’t hurt it—but take it away!” The articulation was thick, but it did not mask the wail in the voice, and a gigantic thumb jerked indicatively toward the patient, asserting figure of Miss Barry.

“All right, Mr. Brandle.” Miss Maxwell’s tone showed neither conciliation nor pity; it was plainly matter-of-fact. “As it happens, I’ve brought you a new nurse. Suppose you try Miss O’Leary for the next day or two.”

The wail broke out afresh: “How can I tell if I can stand her? They all look alike—all of ’em. You’re the fourth, ain’t you?” He turned to the nurse at his bedside for corroboration.

“Then I’m the fifth,” announced Sheila, “and there’s luck in odd numbers.”

“Five’s my number.” The mammoth man looked a fraction less distracted as he stated this important fact. “Born fifth day of the fifth month, struck it rich when I was twenty-five, married in ’seventy-five, formed the American Coal Trust December fifth, eighteen ninety-five. How’s that for a number?”

“And I’m twenty-five, and this is June fifth.” Sheila smiled.

“Say, honest?” A glimmer of cheerfulness filtered through. The man beckoned the superintendent of nurses closer and whispered in a perfectly audible voice: “Can’t you take it away now? I’d like to ask the other some questions before you leave her for keeps.”

Miss Maxwell nodded a dismissal to the nurse who had been, and called Sheila to the bedside. “Look her over well, Mr. Brandle. Miss O’Leary isn’t a bit sensitive.”

“O’Leary? That’s not a bad name. Had a shaft boss up at my first anthracite-mine by that name—got on with him first-class. Say”—this direct to Sheila—“can you pray?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“Not a bad answer. Now what—er—form of—literatoore do you prefer?”

“Things with pep—punch—go!”

“Say, shake.” The mammoth man smiled as he held out a giant fist. Sheila had the feeling she was shaking hands with some prehistoric animal. It was almost repellent, and she had to summon all her sympathy and control to be able to return the shake with any degree of cordiality.

“All right, ma’am. You can leave us now to thrash it out man to man. You’d better get back to managing your little white angels,” and he swept a dismissing hand toward Miss Maxwell and the door.

Oddly enough, there was nothing rude nor affronting in the man’s words. There was too much of underlying good nature to permit it. With the closing of the door behind the superintendent he turned to Sheila. “Now, boss, we might as well understand each other—it’ll save strikes or hurt feelings. Eh?”

Sheila nodded.

“All right. I’m dying, and I know it. May burst like a paper bag or go up like a penny balloon any minute. Now praying won’t keep me from bursting a second sooner, or send me up a foot higher, so cut it out.”

Again Sheila nodded.

“That isn’t all. Had two nurses who agreed, kept their word, but they hadn’t the nerve to keep the parson from praying, and when he was off duty they just sat—twiddled their thumbs and waited for me to quit. Couldn’t stand that—got on my nerves something fearful.”

“Wanted to murder them, didn’t you?” Sheila laughed. “Well, Mr. Brandle, suppose we begin with supper and the baseball news. After that we’ll hunt up a thriller—biggest thriller they’ve got in the book-store.”

“You’re boss,” was the answer, but a look of relief—almost of contentment—spread over the rubicund face.

As Sheila was leaving for the supper-tray she paused. “How would you like company for supper?”

“Company? Good Lord, not the parson!”

“No, me. If you are willing to sign for two, I could bring my supper up with yours.”

“And not eat alone! By Jehoshaphat! Give me that slip quick.”

They had not only a good supper, they had a noisy one. The coal magnate roared over Sheila’s descriptions of some of the bath treatments and their victims. In the midst of one particularly noisy explosion he suddenly stopped and looked accusingly at her. “Why don’t you stop me? Don’t you know doctor’s orders? Had ’em dinged into my head until I could say ’em backwards: no exertion, no excitement, avoid all undue movement, keep quiet. Darn it all! As if I won’t have to keep quiet long enough! Well—why don’t you repeat those fool orders and keep me quiet?”

Sheila looked at him with a pair of steady gray eyes. “Do you know, Mr. Brandle, it isn’t a half-bad way to go out of this world—to go laughing.”

The mammoth man beamed. He looked for all the world like the full moon suddenly grown beatific. “And I’d just about made up my mind that I’d never find a blamed soul who would feel that way about it. Shake again, boss.”

After the baseball news and a fair start in the thriller, he indulged further in past grievances. “Hadn’t any more’n settled it for sure I was done for than the parson came and the nurse took to looking mournful. Lord Almighty! ain’t it bad enough to be carted off in a hearse once without folks putting you in beforehand? That’s not my notion of dying. I lived pleasant and cheerful, and by the Lord Harry, I don’t see why I can’t die that way! And look-a-here, boss, I don’t want any of that repenting stuff. I don’t need no puling parson to tell me I’m a sinner. Any idiot couldn’t look at me without guessing that much. Say!” He leaned forward with sudden earnestness. “Take a good look at me yourself. See any halo or angel trappings about me?”

Sheila laughed. “I’m afraid not. What you really ought to have—what I miss about you—is the pipe, and the bowl, and the fiddlers three.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t you remember? It’s an old nursery rhyme; probably you heard it hundreds of times when you were a little boy:

“Old King Cole was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul was he.
He called for his pipe and he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.”

The coal magnate threw back his head on the pillows and laughed long and loud. He laughed until he grew purple and gasped for breath, and he laughed while he choked, and Sheila flew about for stimulants. For a few breathless moments Sheila thought she had whipped up the hearse—to use the mammoth man’s own metaphor—but after a panting half-hour the heart subsided and the breath came easier.

“You nearly did for me that time, boss. But it fits; Jehoshaphat, it fits me like a B. V. D.! The only difference you might put down to simplified spelling. Eh?” And he cautiously chuckled at his joke.

While Sheila was making ready for the night he chuckled and lapsed into florid, heliotrope studies by turns. “It’s straight, what I told you about being a sinner,” he gave verbal expression to his thoughts at last. “That’s why I don’t leave a cent to charity—not a cent. Ain’t going to have any peaked-faced, oily-tongued jackasses saying over my coffin that I tried to buy my entrance ticket into the Lord Almighty’s kingdom. No, sirree! I know I’ve lived high, eaten well, and drunk some. I’ve made the best of every good bargain that came within eyeshot. I treated my own handsome—and I let the rest of the world go hang. Went to church Easter Sunday every year and put a bill in the plate; you can figure for yourself about how much I’ve given to charity. Never had any time to think of it, anyway—probably wouldn’t have given if I had. Always thought Mother’d live longer’n me and she’d take care of that end of it. But she didn’t.”

For a moment Sheila thought the man was going to cry; his lower lip quivered like a baby’s, and his eyes grew red and watery. There was no denying it, the man was a caricature; even his grief was ludicrous. He wiped his eyes with the back of his heliotrope sleeve and finished what he had to say. “Don’t it beat all how the pious vultures croak over you the minute you’re done for—reminding you you can’t take your money away with you? Didn’t the parson—first time he came—sit in that chair and open up and begin about the rich man’s squeezing through a needle’s eye and a lot about putting away temporal stuff? I don’t aim to do any squeezing into heaven, I can tell you. And I fixed him all right. Ha, ha! I told him as long as the money wouldn’t do me and Mother any more good I’d settle it so’s it couldn’t benefit any one else. And that’s exactly what I’ve done. Left it all for a monument for us, fancy marble, carved statues, and the whole outfit. It’ll beat that toadstool-looking tomb of that prince somewhere in Asia all hollow. Ha, ha!”

He leaned back to enjoy to the full this humorous legacy to himself, but the expression of Sheila’s face checked it. “Say, boss, you don’t like what I’ve done, do you? Run it out and dump it; I can stand for straight talk from you.”

Sheila felt repelled even more than she had at first. To have a man at the point of death throw his money into a heap of marble just to keep it from doing good to any one seemed horrible. And yet the man spoke so consistently for himself. He had lived in the flesh and for the flesh all his days; it was not strange that there was no spirit to interpret now for him or to give him the courage to be generous in the face of what the world would think.

“It’s yours to spend as you like—only—I hate monuments. Rather have the plain green grass over me. And don’t you think it’s queer yourself that a man who had the grit to make himself and a pile of money hasn’t the grit to leave it invested after he goes, instead of burying it? Supposing you can’t live and use it yourself! That’s no reason for not letting your money live after you. I’d want to keep my money alive.”

“Alive? Say, what do you mean?”

“Just what I say—alive. Charity isn’t the only way to dispose of it. Leave it to science to discover something new with; give it to the laboratories to study up typhoid or cancer. Ever think how little we know about them?”

“Why should I? I don’t owe anything to science.”

“Yes, you do. What developed the need of coal—what gave you the facilities for removing it from your mines? Don’t tell me you or anybody else doesn’t owe something to science.”

“Bosh!” And the argument ended there.

The old man had a good night. He dozed as peacefully as if he had not required propping up and occasional hypodermics to keep his lungs and heart going properly, and when the house doctor made his early rounds this sad and shocking spectacle met his eye: the dying coal magnate, arrayed in a fresh and more vivid suit of heliotrope pajamas, smoking a brierwood and keeping a violent emotional pace with the hero in the thrillingest part of the thriller. Even Sheila’s cheeks were tinged with excitement.

“Miss O’Leary!” All the outraged sensibilities of an orthodox, conscientious young house physician were plainly manifested in those two words.

Out shot the brierwood like a projectile, and a giant finger wagged at the intruder. “Look-a-here, young man, the boss and I are running this—er—quitting game to suit ourselves, and we don’t need no suggestions from the walking delegate, or the board of directors, or the gang. See? Now if you can’t say something pleasant and cheerful, get out!”

“Good morning!” It was the best compromise the house physician could make. But ten minutes after his speedy exit Doctor Greer, the specialist, and Miss Maxwell were on the threshold, both looking unmistakably troubled.

The coal magnate winked at Sheila. “Here comes the peace delegates—or maybe it’s from the labor union. Well, sir?” This was shot straight at the doctor.

“Mr. Brandle, you’re mad. I refuse to take any responsibility.”

“Don’t have to. That’s what’s been the matter—too much responsibility. It got on my nerves. Now we want to be as—as noisy and as happy as we can, the boss and me. And if we can’t do it in this little old medicated brick-pile of yours, why, we’ll move. See? Or I’ll buy it with a few tons of my coal and give it to the boss to run.”

“When it’s yours.” The specialist was finding it hard to keep his temper. The man had worn him out in the week he had been at the sanitarium. It had been harder to manage him than a spoiled child or a lunatic. He had had to humor him, cajole him, entreat him, in a way that galled his professional dignity, and now to have the man deliberately and publicly kill himself in this fashion was almost beyond endurance. He tried hard to make his voice sound agreeable as well as determined when he launched his ultimatum. “But in the mean time Miss O’Leary will have to be removed from the case.”

“No, you don’t!” With a sweep of the giant hand the bedclothes were jerked from their roots, and a pair of heliotrope legs projected floorward. It took the strength of all the three present to hold him back and replace the covering. The magnate sputtered and fumed. “First nurse you put on here after the boss goes—I’ll die on her hands in ten minutes just to get even with you. That’s what I’ll do. And what’s more—I’ll come back to haunt the both of you. Take away my boss—just after we get things going pleasantly. Spoil a poor man’s prospects of dying cheerful! Haven’t you any heart, man? And you, ma’am?” this to the superintendent of nurses. “By the Lord Harry! you’re a woman—you ought to have a little sympathy!” The aggressiveness died out of the voice, and it took on the old wail Sheila had first heard.

“But you forget my professional responsibility in the matter—my principles as an honorable member of my profession. I cannot allow a patient of mine wilfully to endanger his life—even shorten it. You must understand that, Mr. Brandle.”

A look of amused toleration spread over the rubicund face. “Bless your heart, sonny, you’re not allowing me to shorten it one minute. The boss and I are prolonging it first-rate. Shouldn’t wonder if it would get to be so pleasant having her around I’d be working over union hours and forgetting to quit at all. I’m old enough to be your granddaddy, so take a bit of advice from me. When you can’t cure a patient, let ’em die their own way. Now run along, sonny. Good morning, ma’am.” And then to Sheila: “Get back to that locked door, the three bullet-holes, and the blood patch on the floor. I’ve got to know what’s on the other side before I touch one mouthful of that finnan haddie you promised me for breakfast.”

After that Old King Cole had his way. The doctors visited him as a matter of form, and Sheila improvised a chart, for he would not stand for having temperatures taken or pulses counted. “Cut it out, boss, cut it all out. We’re just going to have a good time, you and me.” And he smiled seraphically as he drummed on the spread:

“Old King Cole—diddy-dum-diddy-dum,
Was a merry old soul—diddy-dum-diddy-dum.”

On the second day Sheila introduced Peter Brooks into the “Keeping-On-Going Syndicate,” as the mammoth man termed their temporary partnership. Sheila had to take some hours off duty, and as the coal magnate absolutely refused to let another nurse cross his threshold, Peter seemed to be the only practical solution. She knew the two men would get on admirably. Peter could be counted on to understand and meet any emergency that might arise, while Old King Cole would be kept content. And Sheila was right.

“Say, we hit it off first-rate—ran together as smooth as a parcel o’ greased tubs,” the magnate confided to Sheila when she returned. “He told me a whole lot about you—what you did for him—and the nickname they’d given you—‘Leerie.’ I like that, but I like my name for you better. Eh, boss?”

Once admitted, Peter often availed himself of his membership in the syndicate. He made a third at their games, turned an attentive ear to the thriller or added his bit to the enlightenment of the conversation. And there wasn’t a topic from war to feminine-dress reform that they did not attack and thrash out among them with all the keenness and thoroughness of three alive and original minds.

“Puts me thinking of the days when I was switch boss at the Cassie Maguire Mine. Nothing but a shaver then, working up; nothing to do in the God-forsaken hole, after work, but talk. We just about settled the affairs of the world and gave the Lord Almighty advice into the bargain.” The mammoth man laughed a mammoth laugh. “And when we’d talked ourselves inside out we’d have some fiddling—always a fiddle among some of the boys. Never hear one of those old tunes that it don’t take me back to the Cassie Maguire and the way a fiddle would play the heart back into a lonely, homesick shaver.” He turned with a suspicious sniff to Sheila. “Come, boss, the chessboard. Peter’n’me are going to have another Verdun set-to. Only this time he’s German. See? And if you don’t mind, you might fill up our pipes and bring us our four-forty bowl.”

At one time of the day only did the merriment flag—that was at dusk. “Don’t like it—never did like it,” he confessed. “Something about it that gets onto my chest and turns me gloomy. Don’t suppose you ever smelled the choke-damp, did you? Well, that’s the feeling. Say, boss, wouldn’t be a bad plan to shine up that old safety of yours and give us more light in the old pit. Mother quit about this time o’ day, and it seems like I can’t forget it.”

The next day the coal magnate took a turn for the worse. The heart specialist and the house doctor glowered ominously at Sheila as they came to make their unwelcome rounds, and Sheila hurried them out of the room as speedily as she could. Then it was that she thought of the fiddlers three. An out-of-town orchestra played biweekly at the sanitarium. They were young men, most of them, still apprentices at their art, and she knew they would be glad enough for extra earnings. They were due that evening, and she would engage the services of three violins for the dusk hour the old man dreaded. She did not accomplish this without a protest from the business office, warnings from the two physicians, and shocked comments from the habitual gossips of the sanitarium. But Sheila held her ground and fought for her way against their combined attacks. “Of course I know he’s dying. Don’t care if the whole San faints with mortification. I’m going to see he dies the way he wants to—keep it merry till the end.”

To the Reverend Mr. Grumble, who requested—nay, demanded—admittance, she turned a deaf ear while she held the door firmly closed behind her. “Can’t come in. Sorry, he doesn’t want you. If you must say a last prayer to comfort yourself, say it in some other room. It will do Old King Cole just as much good and keep him much happier. Now, please go!”

So it happened that only Peter was present when the musicians arrived. Sheila ushered them in with a flourish. “Old King Cole, your fiddlers three. Now what shall they play?”

Lucky for the indwellers of the sanitarium that the magnate’s room was in the tower and therefore little sound escaped. It is improbable if the final ending would ever have been known to any but those present, whose discretion could have been relied upon, but for the fact that Miss Jacobs stood with her ear to the keyhole for fully ten minutes. It was surprising how quickly everybody knew about it after that. It created almost as much scandal as Sheila’s own exodus had three years before. Many had the temerity to take the lift to the third floor and pace with attentive ears the corridor that led to the tower. These came back to fan the flame of shocked excitement below. The doctors and Mr. Grumble came to Miss Maxwell to interfere and put an end to this ungodly and unprofessional humoring of one departing soul. But the superintendent of nurses refused. She had put the case in Sheila’s hands, and she had absolute faith in her. So all that was left to the busybodies and the scandalmongers was to hear what they could and give free rein to their tongues.

There was, however, one mitigating fact: they could listen, and they could talk, but they could not look beyond the closed door of the tower room. That vivid, appalling picture was mercifully denied them. With a heaping bowl of egg-nog beside him, and his brierwood between his lips, the coal magnate beat time on the bedspread with a fast-failing strength, while he grinned happily at Sheila. Beside him Peter lounged in a wheel-chair, smoking for company, while grouped about the foot of the bed in the attitude of a small celestial choir stood the fiddlers three.

All the good old tunes, reminiscent of younger days of mining-camps and dance-halls, they played as fast as fingers could fly and bows could scrape. “Dan Tucker,” “Money Musk,” “The Irish Washerwoman,” and “Pop Goes the Weasel” sifted in melodic molecules through the keyhole into the curious and receptive ears outside. And after them came “Captain Jinks” and “The Blue Danube,” “Yankee Doodle” and “Dixie.”

“Some boss!” muttered the magnate, thickly, the brierwood dropping on the floor. “Just one solid streak of anthracite—clear through. Now give us something else—I don’t care—you choose it, boss.”

So Leerie chose “The Star-spangled Banner” and “Marching Through Georgia,” and as dusk crept closer about them, “Suwanee River” and “The Old Kentucky Home.”

“Nice, sleepy old tunes,” mumbled the coal magnate. “Guess I’ve napped over-time.” He opened one eye and looked at Sheila, half amused, half puzzled. “Say, boss, light up that little old lamp o’ yours and take me down; the shaft’s growing pretty black.”

The fiddlers played a hymn as their own final contribution. Sheila smiled wistfully across the dusk to Peter. She knew it wouldn’t matter now, for Old King Cole was passing beyond the reach of hymns, prayers, or benedictions.

“It’s over as far as you or I or he are concerned,” she whispered, whimsically. “When I come down, by and by, would you very much mind taking me on one of those rides you promised? I want to forget that white-marble monument.”

It was not until a week later that Sheila O’Leary met with one of the big surprises of her rather eventful existence. A lawyer came down from New York and asked for her. It seemed that the coal magnate had left her a considerable number of thousands to spend for him and ease her feelings about the monument. The codicil was quaintly worded and stated that inasmuch as “Mother” had gone first, he guessed she would do the next best by him.

Sheila took Peter Brooks into her immediate confidence. “Half of it goes for typhoid research and half for a nurses’ home here. We’ve needed one dreadfully. What staggers me is when did he do it?”

Peter grinned. “When I happened to be on duty. We fixed it up, and I was to keep the secret. He had lots of fun over it—poor old soul!”

“Merry old soul,” corrected Sheila.

And when the nurses’ home was built Sheila flatly ignored all the suggestions of a memorial tablet with appropriate scriptural verses to grace the cornerstone or hang in the entrance-hall.

“Won’t have it—never do in the world! Just going to have his picture over the living-room fireplace.”

And there it hangs—a gigantic reproduction of Old King Cole, done by the greatest poster artist of America.

Chapter III

THE CHANGELING

He arrived in the arms of his mother, the mulatto nurse having in some inexplicable and inconsiderate fashion acquired measles on the ship coming from their small South American republic. Francisco Enrique Manuel Machado y Rodriguez—Pancho, for short—and his mother were allowed to disembark only because of his appalling lack of health and her promise to take harborage in a hospital instead of a hotel.

Having heard of the sanitarium from her sister-in-law’s brother’s wife’s aunt, who had been there herself, and having traveled already over a thousand miles, the additional hundred or so seemed too trivial to bother about. So the señora kept her promise to the officials by buying her ticket thitherward, and Flanders, the bus-driver, arrived just in time to see three porters unload them and their luggage on the small station platform. The señora was weeping bitterly, the powder spattered and smeared all over her pretty, shallow little face; Pancho was clawing and scratching the air, while he shrieked at the top of his lungs—the only part of him that gave any evidence of strength.

Having disposed of the luggage, Flanders hurried back to the assistance of the señora, whereupon the brown atom clawed him instead of the air and fortissimoed his shrieking. Flanders promptly returned him to his mother, backing away to the bus and muttering something about “letting wildcat’s cubs be.”

“Wil’cat?” repeated the señora through her sobs. “I don’t know what ees wil’cat. I theenk eet ees one leetle deevil. Tsa, Panchito! Ciera la boca.” And she shook him.

During the drive to the sanitarium Flanders cast periodic glances within. Each time he looked the atom appeared to be shrieking louder, while his mother was shaking harder and longer. By the time they had reached their destination the breath had been shaken quite out of him. He lay back panting in his mother’s arms, with only strength enough for a feeble and occasional snarl. His bonnet of lace and cerise-pink ribbon had come untied and had slipped from his head, disclosing a mass of black hair curled by nature and matted by neglect. It gave the last uncanny touch to the brown atom’s appearance and caused Hennessy, who was sweeping the crossing, to drop his broom and stare agape at the new arrivals.

“Faith, is it one o’ them Brazilian monkeys?” he whispered, pulling Flanders by the sleeve. “I’ve heard the women are makin’ pets o’ them, although I never heard they were after fixin’ them up wi’ lace an’ ribbons like that.”

“It’s a kid.” Flanders stated the fact without any degree of positiveness as he rubbed three fingers cautiously down his cheek. He was feeling for scars. “Guess it’s a kid all right, but it scratches like a cat, gosh durn it!”

Hennessy, however, shook a positive head. “That’s no kid. Can’t ye see for yourself it’s noways human? Accordin’ to the Sunday papers it’s all the style for blond dancers an’ society belles to be fetchin’ one o’ them little apes about. They’re thinkin’ if they hang a bit o’ live ugliness furninst, their beauty will look all the more ravishin’.”

“Live ugliness,” repeated Flanders; then he laughed. “You’ve struck it, Hennessy.”

Meanwhile Francisco Enrique Manuel Machado y Rodriguez—Pancho, for short—and his mother had passed into the hands of the sanitarium porter. He had handed them on to the business office, which in turn had handed them over to the superintendent. The superintendent had shared the pleasure with the house staff, the staff had retired in favor of the baby specialist, and at half past seven o’clock that night neither he nor the superintendent of nurses had been able to coax, argue, command, or threaten a nurse into taking the case.

“I’m afraid you will have to do with an undergraduate and make the best of it.” Miss Maxwell acknowledged her helplessness with a faint smile.

But Doctor Fuller shook his head. “Won’t do. It means skilled care and watching for days. A nurse without experience would be about as much good as an incubator. Think if you dismissed the four who’ve refused, you could frighten a fifth into taking it?”

This time the superintendent of nurses shook her head. “Not this case. They all feel about it the same way. Miss Jacobs tells me she didn’t take her training to nurse monkeys.”

The old doctor chuckled. “Don’t know as I blame her; thought it was a new species myself when I first clapped eyes on it. But shucks! I’ve seen some of our North American babies look like Lincoln Imps when they were down with marasmus. Give me a few weeks and a good nurse and his own mother wouldn’t recognize—” He interrupted himself with a pounding fist on the desk. “Where’s Leerie?”

“You can’t have her—not this time.” Miss Maxwell’s lips became a fraction more firm, while her eyes sharpened into what her training girls had come to call her “forceps expression.”

“Why not?”

“The girl’s just off that case for Doctor Fritz; she’s tired out. Remember she’s been through three unbroken years of hospitals, and we’ve worked her on every hard case we’ve had since she came back. I’m going to see that she gets forty-eight hours of rest now.”