Part 51 (1/2)

He fought his despair with dogged determination, but his love for Eleanor had twined itself around everything that was worth while in him. In plucking it out he uprooted his ambition, his carefully acquired friends.h.i.+ps, his belief in himself, his faith in the future. For eighteen months he had lived in the radiance of one all-absorbing dream, with a faith in its ultimate fulfilment that transcended every fear. And now that that hope was dead, the blackness of despair settled upon him.

That fact that Eleanor had broken faith with him, that she was willing to renew her friends.h.i.+p with Harold Phipps when she knew what he was, that she was willing to give up friends and family and her inheritance for the sake of being with him, could have but one explanation.

Quin used to tell himself this again and again, as he lay in the hot darkness with his hands clasped across his eyes. He used it as a whip with which to scourge any vagrant hopes that dared creep into his heart.

Hadn't Miss Nell told him that she didn't care what he said or did, just so he left her alone? Hadn't she let him come away without expressing a regret for the past or a hope for the future?

But, even as his head condemned her, his heart rushed to her defense.

After all, she had never said she cared for him. And why should she care for a fellow like him, with no education, or money, or position? Even with her faults, she was too good for the best man living. But she cared for Harold Phipps--and with that bitter thought the turmoil began all over again.

He was not only unhappy, but intolerably lonely and ill. He missed Rose and her care for him; he missed Ca.s.s's friends.h.i.+p; he missed his visits to the Bartletts; and above all he missed his work. His interest still clung to Bartlett & Bangs, and the only times of forgetfulness that he had were when he and Dirks were discussing the business of the firm.

What made matters worse was the humid heat of the summer. A low barometer, always an affliction to him, in his present nervous state was torture. Night after night he lay gasping for breath, and in the morning he rose gaunt and pale, with hollow rings under his eyes. Having little desire for food, he often made one meal a day suffice, subst.i.tuting coffee for more solid food.

This method of living could have but one result. By the middle of July he was confined to his bed with a heavy bronchial cold and a temperature that boded ill. Once down and defenseless, he became a prey to all the feminine solicitude of the rooming-house. The old lady next door pottered in and out, putting mustard plasters on his chest and forgetting to take them off, and feeding him nauseous concoctions that she brewed over a coal-oil stove. A woman from upstairs insisted on keeping his window and door wide open, and trying cold compresses on his throat. While the majorful mother of six across the hall came in each night to sweep the other two out, close the window and door, and fill the room with eucalyptus fumes.

Quin let them do whatever they wanted. The mere business of breathing seemed to be about all he could attend to these days. The only point on which he was firm was his refusal to notify his friends or to have a doctor.

”I'll be all right when this beastly weather lets up,” he said to Dirks one Sunday night. ”Is there any sign of clearing?”

”Not much. It's thick and muggy and still raining in torrents. I wish you'd see a doctor.”

Pride kept Quin from revealing the fact that he had no money to pay a doctor. Five weeks without work had completely exhausted his exchequer.

”I'm used to these knockouts,” he wheezed with a.s.sumed cheerfulness one Sunday night. ”It's not half as bad as it sounds. I'll be up in a day or so.”

Dirks was not satisfied. His glance swept the small disordered room, and came back to the flushed face on the pillow.

”Don't you want some grub?” he suggested. ”I'll get you anything you like.”

”No, thanks; I'm not hungry. You might put the water-pitcher over here by the bed. My tongue feels like a shredded-wheat biscuit.”

Dirks gave him some water, then turned to go.

”Oh, by the way,” he said, ”Here's a letter for you that's been laying around at the factory for a couple of days. n.o.body knew where to forward it.”

Like a shot Quin was up in bed and holding out an eager hand. But at sight of the small cramped writing he lay back on his pillow listlessly.

”It's from Miss Isobel Bartlett,” he said indifferently. ”Wonder what she's doing back in town in the middle of the summer.”

”I hear they are all back,” Dirks said. ”The old lady is very ill and they had to bring her home. If you want anything in the night, just pound on the wall. I'm going to fetch a doctor if you ain't better in the morning.”

When Dirks had gone Quin opened his letter and read:

_Dear Quin:_

I am rus.h.i.+ng this off to the factory in the hope that they have your address and can get into communication with you at once. Mother has had two dreadful attacks with her appendix, and the doctors say she cannot survive another. But she refuses point-blank to be operated on, and my brother and sister and I are powerless to move her. Won't you come the moment you get this, and try to persuade her? She has such confidence in your judgment, and you could always do more with her than any one else. I am almost wild with anxiety and I don't know which way to turn. Do come at once.

Your friend,