Coming Through the Rye (20 page)

Once it seemed to her that there was a slight fluttering of the eyelids, but it passed and did not come again.

Yet she stood still in the shadow by the bed, ready if he should open his eyes once more. She repeated the verses until they began to bring a message to her own tired heart, and she began to pray, “Oh God, forgive him!” And then by and by she changed it and said in her heart,
Oh, God, forgive us!
It was like one of Isaiah's prayers for his whole household. It was as if she were confessing sin that her household had committed, and pleading for forgiveness for them all, including herself among the guilty.

While she stood there with bowed head, the door opened, and the nurse came back.

Romayne could see even by the dim light of the lamp that the nurse had been crying. She motioned to the girl to follow her into the hall.

“I came back to see if you would mind if I'd get another nurse to take my place just for tonight. There really isn't a thing to do but give him his medicine and his nourishment at the right time. I'd fix him all before I left. I wouldn't ask it, only I promised Evan Sherwood's mother long ago if he ever took sick I'd nurse him if I had to turn heaven and earth to get away from a case. Of course, his aunt is there, and that makes it different, but she ain't a trained nurse, and the doctor says he's pretty serious and a great deal depends on tonight, that he'd try and look around by morning for somebody that would do if he lived that long. But, of course, I wouldn't leave you if you don't like it. There's a little probationary nurse down to the children's hospital I could get you for tonight—”

“Then he's not dead!” exclaimed Romayne with a strange feeling of elation that her soul had a reprieve from a personal crime. “I thought you said he had been killed.”

“No, he's living,” sighed the nurse, “but he's awful bad. The ball just missed the heart, and they had a terrible time getting it out. It was too near the vital parts. It seems he was all run down working so hard with all these raids, and he's been up nights a lot running the whole gang while the rest of 'em were off on their vacations. He ain't the kind that takes vacations fer hisself when there's something needs doing. But I promised him I'd look after you, and I won't go if you think there's anything out of the way in my doing it. I could phone that little nurse, you know, and have her here in ten minutes—she said she was off-duty tonight—but it's just as you say.”

“Why, of course, go to him. There is no obligation for you to stay here. And you needn't get the other nurse. I can perfectly well stay with my father tonight. It won't hurt me in the least to sit up. I want to be with him all I can anyway.”

“Well, I'm not leaving you alone in the house with a strange man downstairs, anyhow! That's not the way I keep my promises. I'll get the nurse! Thank you! I'll be back in the morning as early as I possibly can. Now I'll go call up Helen. She said she'd be right by the phone waiting and would be here in fifteen minutes.”

The nurse disappeared and left Romayne with a strange, deserted feeling. She had not known she would feel that way. She had wanted to be alone with her father and care for him, and now she was, and all sorts of forebodings assailed her.

She could hear the distant murmur of the nurse calling up her substitute, and presently the front door closed, and silence followed. The house seemed very still. A minute dragged out to a long period of time. She began to wonder what she should do if a crisis arrived. Suppose her father died. Would she know it? She had never been alone with death. It suddenly seemed terrible to have such a weight of responsibility upon her. The thought of Lawrence, far away, somewhere intent on saving his own life, stabbed her like a sword.

She began to repeat, like an incantation against her fears, the verses she had said the day before. She did not hesitate nor have to think what they were. They seemed to follow in the same logical sequence that they had come to her at first, and the majesty and greatness of their purport, as before, lifted her out of the darkness of earthly fears and made her strong once more.

She slipped her hand in the clasp of the cold, inert hand of her father and began to pray softly, in a whisper, over and over, “Oh God, forgive my father, and help him to take hold of Thee.” Over and over, her warm hand in the cold one, till little by little the hand seemed to warm to hers. Was it wholly fancy that her handclasp seemed once to be returned gently, feebly? Her heart leaped at the thought, and she lovingly covered the cold hand and went on whispering her prayer.

By and by the assistant nurse stole in cautiously and signified that the lady might leave everything to her, but Romayne shook her head and whispered with a sad little smile, “I'd rather stay here tonight. I have a fancy he likes it.”

The nurse brought her a low rocker and arranged pillows so that she could lay her head back, and so she rested, her father's hand in hers, her head against the pillows, and fell asleep.

She was still asleep when the morning sun slanted in at the window, while the substitute nurse went deftly around doing all the early morning things that nurses do, no matter what awful thing has happened or is about to happen. She did not waken until the regular nurse returned, somewhat noisily, perhaps, on account of her excitement.

“Mr. Sherwood's better,” she announced in a husky whisper. “He come to and knowed me, and sent me piling right back to you. Beats all how he never thinks of hisself. He said I was not to leave you again, not as long as you needed me, not even if he died. He said if he died that was his last will and testament. So I come. I couldn't do otherwise. Everybody does as he says. But his temperature is down some, and the doctor says he thinks he'll pull through. He's got clean blood and good living and a spirit like noon sunshine, and that's more than two-thirds of any battle in sickness. My soul, child! You're white as a ghost! You don't mean to tell me you set there all night! My land, Helen! Why did you let her?”

Then she stepped nearer to the bed with her professional air and put her finger lightly on the pulse.

Her face grew grave. She scrutinized the patient more intently.

“There's been a change here,” she whispered very low. “Did he open his eyes again?”

Romayne shook her head, the clutch of fear gripping her heart once more.

“There's been a change,” she repeated with a kind of awe in her voice. “Can't you see yourself, child? His face is more peaceful, not so drawn looking. The twist is going out.”

Romayne stood up and looked down on her father, and as she drew near, suddenly his eyes opened again, with a look as if he had just awakened and were searching for something. His gaze came to rest upon her, and a relief dawned in his eyes.

Romayne had hold of his hand, and now she distinctly felt a quiver in the hand she held.

“Father!” she cried, her voice full of thrill of his knowing her.

And then there seemed to pass a struggle over the poor father: the lips moved and the eyes still desperately upon her face as if there were something he must say.

Something told her that now was the time for her to speak. This was the time that Lawrence had begged her to be ready for, but her own voice seemed paralyzed, all her vitality struggling with him to frame the word he was trying to give her.

The lips had opened and formed a sound!

She bent nearer and caught its precious meaning: “Forgive!”

It was mumbled and half-inaudible, but she was sure of it.

“Yes, Father!” she answered in a clear, triumphant voice. “Forgive! It's all right!”

And again the lips struggled, and the hand gave a feeble clutch; the eyes lifted with just a flutter in a significant glance above and back to her face again.

“F–f–f–r–given!” and he searched her face eagerly to see if she understood.

“Yes, Father. It's all forgiven. God forgives. We forgive.”

The tortured eyes rested on her face for a long moment; a kind of content grew in their expression, and a wistful tenderness. Then slowly there dawned on the white face a look of peace, a straightening of the twisted muscles, a smoothing-out of the care and horror. The eyelids closed. A slight, almost imperceptible moment passed over the whole frame, and he was gone!

I
t is a terrible moment when one has to turn away from the deathbed of a loved one. But when the nurse gently drew Romayne from her father's bedside, though there was a smart of tears in her eyes, and a great sense of sudden overwhelming loss, there was in her heart a joyful triumph.

She had gotten her message across to her father's poor numbed senses that there was forgiveness for him, and he had been able to grasp the hope held out to him and to give assurance that he did so. What else mattered? That was enough to lift her above the catastrophe of the moment. He was gone from her, but he was gone home! It did not occur to her to think just then of her own desolation. She was rejoicing for her father in that he had found peace.

The nurse looked for her to break down in hysterical weeping, but she gave her a little trembling smile and walked quietly away to her own room, coming out again presently, with tears upon her cheeks, it is true, but with a look of calmness and strength about her that made all those with whom she had to do marvel.

“Of course,” they said with wise looks at one another, “she must know it is better for all concerned that he didn't get well.”

Still, that didn't quite seem to explain the look on her face. The word “exalted” described it better than any other. The nurse was trying to find words in which to give her report to Evan Sherwood. But exalted was not a word with which the nurse had familiar acquaintance. “She looks kind of as if somebody had given her a great unexpected gift and she can't be thankful enough,” was the way she finally put it.

It seemed that there were so many appalling questions to settle all at once, details of death that had never entered her consciousness before, and she all alone to settle them! Why had Lawrence gone out of her life in this way? If he had only remained in jail where she could have consulted him! And yet, he had been so filled with his own troubles that he had not seemed to realize about their father. Some word should be sent him, of course, though naturally after the manner of his departure it would be out of the question to expect him to come, or to hope to consult him about arrangements. She felt so helpless and so young. And then the matter of money suddenly loomed before her as a tremendous question. Things must be done right, of course, and she had no idea how much money she had to depend upon. She knew only that her father had put five hundred dollars in the bank to start an account for her the day she went to the house party. She had not touched it yet. It occurred to her that there must have been expenses, and yet no one had come to her for money. Probably the girl in the kitchen had charged whatever she got at the stores, and there would be big bills to pay. She ought to have been watching, but how could she, with her mind so full of trouble? And there would be the nurse to pay, and the doctor—

She sighed sorrowfully and wondered why all this awfulness had to come upon her, and where she should begin to try and take up the burden of life on her own responsibility. It seemed incredible that, after all was done that had to be done for her father, she still must go on and live by herself with all of a natural life likely before her. It was unthinkable! It was appalling!

There appeared, quietly, unobtrusively, a little white-haired woman in gray who entered with some lovely flowers in her hands and made no fuss nor asked any questions, just went about doing little helpful things. Romayne took her for one of the people with the undertaker at first, but later when she asked her name, she said, “Oh, I'm just a neighbor nearby. I heard you were in trouble, and I came to see if I could help. I'm not really a neighbor, either, for I live away up in New Hampshire, but I'm in the city for a little while on business, and I heard you were alone. Just call me Aunt Patty. You won't need to feel any obligations toward me. I'll be gone in a few days.”

Romayne smiled wistfully at her and felt a sudden relaxing of the tension of her nerves. Somehow it was good to have a motherly woman around who understood and didn't bother with questions. She didn't say whether she knew the whole story of shame or not, but it didn't matter. Romayne somehow felt she would have been just as kind if she had known, and it was a relief to accept the gentle sympathy and not have to think about the shame.

This same Aunt Patty helped to settle a good many puzzling questions, just by being there and letting Romayne talk them out to her. It somehow seemed to clarify the atmosphere and help her to decide on the natural thing to be done.

It was Aunt Patty who helped arrange the service.

“Your mother? Where is she buried? You will want your father to lie beside her, of course?”

And Romayne suddenly saw that that was the natural thing to be done. The undertaker had been talking about lots, and the whole thing had seemed so terrible, and so impossible, and expensive!

It was Aunt Patty who arranged with the undertaker to telegraph to the little Virginia town where they had lived before Romayne's mother died, and make everything ready for their coming, and Aunt Patty who went to see Dr. Stephens, the minister, and arranged a simple service at the house before they left for Virginia. When she asked if there was anything special that Romayne would like to suggest for the service, the girl shook her head at first and then thoughtfully said, “Wait. Yes. There are some verses.…”

She wrote out the verses in their order as she had repeated them to her father and handed them to Aunt Patty.

“Just those,” she said, “and a simple service with a prayer. I don't know much about funerals, but I want those verses to be read—”

She paused and looked at Aunt Patty shyly.