Part 29 (1/2)

We went through the same business every night, and I took a nap every afternoon when she did. She told me, what I wasn't much surprised to hear, that she and Mr. Ferrau were engaged--or just about--when this precious Janet died, and that now she wouldn't hear of it and had refused to marry him till she was well again. And I must say I think she was right. Of course the old gentleman didn't see it that way, and we had many a discussion about it, he and I.

”G.o.d Almighty, Miss Jessop, my dear,” he used to say to me, ”you know as well as I do--I'm speaking, of course, to a woman of practical sense and experience, and therefore I speak plainly--you know as well as I do that the day after the wedding all this will be done for! We'll never hear of that d.a.m.ned Janet nonsense again. Now, would we?”

”Well, Commodore, maybe not, but you can't tell,” I'd say. ”It's a good bet, but--it's a bet, after all. It would be awkward if it didn't work out, you know.”

”Oh, bosh, bos.h.!.+” he'd burst out, and roll off to the Yacht Club.

People that live in big houses like that, I've noticed, always have to go out to get a little peace, they say, and privacy. It's funny.

The weather was bad, so we didn't go on the motor trip at all, and that was just as well, for if we had, I should never have gone up to the hospital that day and never seen old Margaret. She was an old darky woman that used to come in to clean the wards when they were short of help, and all the nurses knew her, because she used to tell fortunes with cards and a gla.s.s ball she looked into--pretty fair fortunes, too.

I've known of some awfully queer things she told different nurses that were only too true. She always liked me because I used to jolly her up, and I stopped to speak to her, and she asked me where I was working.

”Oh, a grand place on the Avenue, Margaret,” I told her, ”marble stairs and a fountain in the hall.”

”What's the sickness, honey?” she asked, for those darkies are always curious.

”The patient's got a ghost, Margaret,” I said, just to see what she'd say, ”and I'm sorry to say we can't seem to cure her.”

”Co'se you cayn't cure her,” says she, ”no stuff in bottles for that, honey! What the ghos' want?”

”Nothing at all,” said I. ”It just sits on the bed and looks.”

”Laws, honey, Miss Jessop, but that yer kine's the wors' of all,” says she, staring at me. ”She'll jes' have ter leave it onto somebody else, that's all.”

”Why, can you do that?” I asked.

”Sure you can do it,” she says. ”Was it one that loved her?”

”They all say so,” said I.

She struck her hands together.

”I knew it--I knew it!” she cried out. ”It's always that-a-way. My ole mudder she had that ha'nt fer ten years, and it was her half-sister that brung her up from three years ole! She'll jes' have ter leave it onto some one.”

”Well, I'll tell her so,” said I, just in joke, of course.

”You do,” says she, solemn as the grave, ”you do, Miss Jessop, honey, an' she'll bless you all her life. You get some one ter say they'll take that ha'nt off her _right w'ile it's there, so it hears 'em_, and w'ile there's a witness there ter hear bofe sides, an' you hear to me, now, she'll go free!”

”I'll certainly tell her, Margaret,” I said, and I went on and never gave it another thought, of course.

We went up to the Elton's camp in Maine all of a sudden, for Miss Elton got the idea she'd feel better there, and though it was cold as Greenland, it did seem for a little as if she got a bit more sleep.

But not for long. We slept out on pine-bough beds around a big fire, for that made more light, and that precious Janet seemed to be fainter, but she was there, just the same, and the poor girl had lost eighteen pounds and I felt pretty blue about it. It didn't really look as if we got ahead any, as I told the doctor, and she hardly spoke all day. I'm not much for the country, as a rule, it always smells so damp at night, but the Lord knows I'd have lived there a year if it would have helped her any.

Then came the night when Mr. Ferrau ran up to see how she was getting along. It was too cold for Madam and the Commodore, so we were there alone except for a gang of guides and servants and chauffeurs and ma.s.seuses. She had a bad night that night, for she got the idea that this lovely Janet was sitting up nearer and nearer to her, and she had it in her head that when she got to a certain point it would be all up with her. And when I told the doctor that, over the telephone, all he said was:

”Too bad, too bad!” So I knew how _he_ felt.

Well, she got talking rather hysterically for her, and I began to wish somebody else was around, when Mr. Ferrau jumps out of his door in the bachelor quarters and dashes over to us in a heavy bathrobe, white as a sheet.

”For G.o.d's sake, Miss Jessop, _do_ something!” he said, but I just shrugged my shoulders. There was nothing to _do_, you see. She was all bundled up in a seal-skin sleeping-bag with a wool helmet over her head; her eyes certainly looked bad. I just about gave up hope, then.

The moon made everything a sort of bluish-white and we all must have looked pretty ghastly.