Part 35 (1/2)
”And feed them light; that's the most important!” Martie added eagerly.
”Sure. And I get my transportation, and you only half fare, so you see there's not much to that!”
”Wallace!” The world was changing. ”And what would you do?”
”Checking cargoes, and managing things generally. We get a house, and he says the place is alive with servants. And he asked if you were the sort of woman who would take in a few boarders; he says the men there are crazy for American cooking, and that you could have all you'd take--”
”Oh, I would!” Martie said excitedly. ”I'd have nothing else to do, you know! Oh, Wallie, I am delighted about this! I am so sick of this city!” she added, smiling tremulously. ”I am so sick of cold and dirt and worry!”
”Well,” he smiled a little shamefacedly, ”one thing you'll like. No booze down there. Buff says there's nothing in it; it can't be done. He says that's the quickest way for a man to FINISH himself!”
The kitchen had been brightening for Martie with the swift changes of a stage sunrise. Now the colour came to her face, and the happy tears to her eyes. For the first time in many months she went into her husband's arms, and put her own arms about his neck, and her cheek against his, in the happy fas.h.i.+on of years ago.
”Oh, Wallie, dear! We'll begin all over again. We'll get away, on the steamer, and make a home and a life for ourselves!”
”Don't you WANT to go, Moth'?” Teddy asked anxiously. Martie laughed as she wiped her eyes.
”Crying for joy, Ted,” she told him. ”Don't sit there sneezing, Wallie,” she added in her ordinary tone. Her husband asked her, dutifully, if she would object to his mixing a hot whisky lemonade for his cold. After a second's hesitation she said no, and it was mixed, and shortly afterward Wallace went to bed and to sleep. At eight Martie tucked Teddy into bed, straightening the clothes over Margar before she went into the dining room for an hour of solitaire.
”Mrs. Bannister's Boarding House”; she liked the sound. The men would tell each other that it was luck to get into Mrs. Bannister's. White shoes--thin white gowns--she must be businesslike--bills and receipts--and terms dignified, but not exorbitant--when Ted was old enough for boarding-school--say twelve--but of course they could tell better about that later on!
A little sound from the front bedroom brought her to her feet, fright clutching her heart. Margar was croupy again!
It was a sufficiently familiar emergency, but Martie never grew used to it. She ran to the child's side, catching up the new bottle of medicine. A hideous paroxysm subsided as she took the baby in her arms, but Margar sank back so heavily exhausted that no coaxing persuaded her to open her eyes, or to do more than reject with fretful little lips the medicine spoon. She is very ill--Martie said to herself fearfully.
She flew to her husband's side.
”Wallie--I hate to wake you! But Margar is croupy, and I'm going to run for Dr. Converse. Light the croup kettle, will you, I won't be a moment!”
His daughter was the core of Wallace's heart. He was instantly alert.
”Here, let me go, Mart! I'll get something on--”
”No, no, I'm dressed! But look at her, Wallie,” Martie said, as they came together to stand by the crib. ”I don't like the way she's breathing--”
She looked eagerly at his face, but saw only her own disquiet reflected there.
”Get the doctor,” he said, tucking the blankets about the shabby little double-gown. ”I'll keep her warm--”
A moment later Martie, b.u.t.toned into her old squirrel-lined coat, was in the quiet, deserted street, which was being m.u.f.fled deeper and deeper in the softly falling snow. Steps, areas, fences, were alike furred in soft white, old gratings wore an exquisite coating over their dingy filigree. The snow was coming down evenly, untouched by wind, the flakes twisting like long ropes against the street lights. A gang of men were talking and clanking shovels on the car tracks; an ambulance thudded by, the wheels grating and slipping on the snow.
Dr. and Mrs. Converse were in their dining room, a pleasant, shabby room smelling of musk, and with an old oil painting of fruit, a cut watermelon, peaches and grapes, a fringed napkin and a gla.s.s of red wine, over the curved black marble mantel. The old man was enjoying a late supper, but struggled into his great coat cheerfully enough. Mrs.
Converse tried to persuade Martie to have just a sip of sherry, but Martie was frantic to be gone. In a moment she and the old man were on their way, through the silent, falling snow again, and in her own hallway, and she was crying to Wallace: ”How is she?”
The room was steamy with the fumes of the croup kettle; Wallace, the child in his arms, met them with a face of terror. Both men bent over the baby.
”She seems all right again now,” said Wallace in a sharp whisper, ”but right after you left--my G.o.d, I thought she would choke!”
Martie watched the doctor's face, amazement and fright paralyzing every sense but sight. The old man's tender, clever hands rested for a moment on the little double-gown.
”Well, poor little girl!” he said, softly, after a moment of pulsing silence. He straightened up, and looked at Martie. ”Gone,” he said simply. ”She died in her father's arms.”