Chapter III

Trench was pretty tired that morning, and handed certain cases over to his oldest student, Becker, and lay down in his office to rest. He could not sleep, however, for he kept remembering Drummond’s words. Drummond had of course spoken in emotional haste, and would make no further reference to a children’s pavilion. But how tremendously Lister Hospital needed such a thing—a genuine place for bedside teaching for the boys of Lister College. It was no exaggeration to say that the average doctor graduated without sense enough to strip a child before examination, and without knowing how to hold it. Trench’s own will was made out in favour of Lister, but it directed all his fortune to be applied toward a research laboratory. He had no heart to begin the enterprise himself, or any enterprise. What the devil was the use of supplying the Ischls with grist?

At the same time, he had the habit. And if the Drummond child got well, and Drummond relapsed into the customary indifference, why, Drummond should in due time be reminded. He, Isham Trench, who had not asked a favour of any human being in six years, would go to the man. He would go at Easter time, when Drummond would be glad that one son was in heavenly bliss and more glad that the other wasn’t. He would go, and Drummond would turn him down to the tune of the Hallelujah Chorus.

Speaking of Ischl’s, he had promised to go to that hell of a shop and criticise it. He might as well give up this napping business and go. This he proceeded to do. As he expected, he found Ischl in a sullen rather than a chastened mood. Trench pointed out numerous deficiencies—the inspectors had done it before—and ended by telling him that his wage-scale was a disgrace to a white man. All of which was useless, competition being competition, and Ischl’s scale being higher than that of many shops in Rochester and New York.

That afternoon he got a nap, and that evening he returned to the Drummond house.

The night proved better than he had any right to expect. By four in the morning he was reasonably certain that the heart would stand the strain. Nor did he see any reason to change his mind when at six he studied the pulse and the face. He washed up and went down.

Again Edith had breakfast ready for him.

“A very good night,” said Trench. “Errors and omissions excepted, Bobbie is going to get well.”

“I have been praying for you all night. Your news is just like heaven.”

Her hand trembled a little as she poured out his coffee for him. She sat down opposite, but would touch no food until she had seen him begin to eat.

“Somehow,” she said, in a low tone, “I am haunted by the feeling that this dreadful disease may be unreal—a bad dream that we have conjured up in our fear.”

“You are tired, my dear lady. May I ask where that plant came from?” He pointed to the centre of the table, where a single superb stalk of leaves, freshly cut, rose from a vase.

“It came from Encampment. I brought home twelve, and gave Mrs. Potter a white dress for them. Do you remember them?”

“I remember perfectly. You said that they declared the glory of God in the wilderness.”

“And you”—Edith laid down her bit of toast and leaned forward—“said that they were exquisite mechanisms. Did you see my name in the commencement list this June?”

“I regret to say that I did not.”

“I took honours in botany.”

“Glorious! Let me offer tardy congratulations.”

“You’d better, because it was your doing.”

“My doing!”

“Yes, sir. I determined to know something about the exquisite mechanisms.”

“I trust that they still seem exquisite.”

“They do. Every fact I learned seemed like a loving response from God.”

Then they ate in silence, and to Trench it was like being married. To glance across and see her sipping her coffee, to receive a second cup himself and note the horizontal movement of her deft hands—as of advance and retreat—it was all new to him.

She finished first and sat regarding him thoughtfully. “Helena telephoned me that Bobbie insisted on kissing you last night. It was very wrong for you to let him do it. You may pay with your life, as Phillips Brooks did.”

Trench rose, and was surprised at a sudden tremor of his whole tired body. “I am immune,” he said. “My blood has developed its own antitoxin.”

“If you were twenty years older,” she cried, “I would kiss you myself for saving our boy.”

It was nothing much to say, but Trench caught her hand and raised it almost to his lips before his nerves stopped the lever of his elbow. He caught himself in time, and seemed merely to scrutinise the scar. “I wish we could do something for this place on the finger. Some day your wedding ring will partly cover it. Tell him to get a broad one.”