As Wade shuffled toward the front door, once more the simple slave of circ.u.mstance, she fled quickly into the library.

"Oh, Lutie," she cried, sinking into a chair beside the long, familiar table, and beating with her clenched hands upon the surface of it, "I know at last just how I look to other people. My G.o.d in heaven, what a _thing I_ must seem to you."

Lutie came swiftly out of the shadows and laid her hands upon the shoulders of her sister-in-law.

"You ought to thank the Lord, dear old girl, for the revelation," she said gently. "I guess it's just what you've needed." Then she leaned over and pressed her warm, soft cheek to Anne's cold one. "If I owned this house,"

she said almost in a whisper, "I'd renovate it from top to bottom. I'd get rid of more than old Wade and the old clothes. The best and cheapest way to renovate it would be to set fire to a barrel of kerosene in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

"Oh, how horrible for that girl to marry a dreadful, shrivelled old man like Wade. The skin on his hands is all wrinkled and loose-I couldn't help noticing it as I-"

"h.e.l.lo!" called out Simmy from the doorway, peering into the darkened room. "Where the deuce are you? Ah, that's better, Wade." The caretaker had switched on the lights in the big chandelier. "Sorry to be late, Anne.

Morning, Lutie. How's my G.o.d-son? Couldn't get here a minute sooner. You see, Anne, I've got other clients besides you. Braden, for instance. I've been carrying out his instructions in regard to that confounded trusteeship. The whole matter is to be looked after by a Trust Company from now on. Simplifies matters enormously."

Anne started up. "Isn't-isn't he coming back to America?" she cried.

"Sure,-unless they pink him some day. My goodness, you don't suppose for an instant that he could manage the whole of that blooming foundation and have any time to spare for _hopeful_ humanity,-do you? Why, it will take a force of half a dozen men to keep the books straight and look after the ever-increasing capital. By the time old Brady is ready to start the ball rolling there will be so much money stored up for the job that Rockefeller will be ashamed to mention the pitiful fortune he controls. In the meantime he can go on saving people's lives while the trust company saves the Foundation."

CHAPTER XXVII

Thorpe returned to New York about the middle of May, in the tenth month of the war. The true facts concerning the abrupt severance of his connections with the hospital corps in France were never divulged. His confreres and his superiors maintained a discreet and loyal silence. It was to Simmy that he explained the cause of his retirement. Word had gone out among the troops that he was the American doctor whose practices were infinitely more to be feared than the bullets from an enemy's guns.... It was announced from headquarters that he was returning to the United States on account of ill-health. He had worked hard and unceasingly and had exposed himself to grave physical hardships. He came home with a medal for conspicuous and unexampled valour while actually under fire. One report had it that on more than one occasion he appeared not only to scorn death but to invite it, so reckless were his deeds.

Meanwhile James Marraville died in great agony. Those nearest to him said, in so many words, that it was a great pity he did not die at the time of the operation.

"But," began one of the reporters at the dock, "you are said to have risked your own life, Dr. Thorpe, on at least half a dozen occasions when you exposed yourself to the fire of the enemy by going out in front after men who had fallen and were as good as dead when you got to them. In every case, we are told the men died on the stretchers while they were being carried to the rear. Do you mind telling us why you brought those men back when you knew that they were bound to die-"

"You have been misinformed," interrupted Thorpe. "One of those men did not die. I did all that was possible to save the lives as well as the bodies of those wretched fellows. Not one of them appeared to have a chance. The one who survived was in the most hopeless condition of them all. He is alive to-day, but without legs or arms. He is only twenty-two. He may live to be seventy. The others died. Will you say that they are not better off than he? And yet we tried to save them all. That is what we were there for. I saw a man run a bayonet through the heart of his own brother one day. We were working over him at the time and we knew that our efforts would be useless. The brother knew it also. He merely did the thing we refused to do. You want to know why I deliberately picked out of all the wounded the men who seemed to have the least chance for recovery, and brought them back to a place of safety. Well, I will tell you quite frankly, why I chose those men from among all the others. They were being left behind. They were as good as dead, as you say. I wanted to treat the most hopeless cases that could be found. I wanted to satisfy myself. I went about it quite cold-bloodedly,-not bravely, as the papers would have it,-and I confess that I pa.s.sed by men lying out there who might have had a chance, looking for those who apparently had none. Seven of them died, as you say,-seven of the 'hopelessly afflicted.' One of them lived. You will now say that having proved to my own satisfaction that no man can be 'hopelessly afflicted,' I should be ready to admit the fallacy of my preachings. But you are wrong. I am more firmly intrenched in my position than ever before. That man's life should not have been saved. We did him a cruel wrong in saving it for him. He wanted to die, he still wants to die.

He will curse G.o.d to the end of his days because he was allowed to live.

Some day his relatives will exhibit him in public, as one of the greatest of freaks, and people will pay to enter the side shows to see him. They will carry him about in shawl straps. He will never be able to protest, for he has lost the power of speech. He can only _see_ and _hear_. Will you be able to look into the agonised eyes of that man as he lies propped up in a chair, a mere trunk, and believe that he is glad to be alive? Will you then rejoice over the fact that we saved him from a much n.o.bler grave than the one he occupies in the side-show, where all the world may stare at him at so much per head? An inglorious reward, gentlemen, for a brave soldier of the Republic."

"We may quote you as saying, Dr. Thorpe, that you have not abandoned your theories?"

"Certainly. I shall go on preaching, as you are pleased to call my advocacy. A great many years from to-day-centuries, no doubt,-the world will think as I do now. Thank you, gentlemen, for your courtesy in-"

"Have you heard that James Marraville died last week, Dr. Thorpe?" broke in one of the reporters.

"No," said he, quite unmoved. "I am not surprised, however. I gave him five or six months."

"Didn't you expect him to get entirely well?" demanded the man, surprised.

Braden shook his head, smiling. "No one expected that, gentlemen,-not even Mr. Marraville."

"But every one thought that the operation was a success, and-"

"And so it was, gentlemen," said Thorpe unsmilingly; "a very terrible success."

"Gee, if we print that as coming from you, Dr. Thorpe, it will create the biggest sensation in years."

"Then I haven't the least doubt that you will print it," said Thorpe.

There was a short silence. Then the spokesman said: "I think I speak for every man here when I say that we will not print it, Dr. Thorpe. We understand, but the people wouldn't." He deliberately altered the character of the interview and inquired if German submarines had been sighted after the steamship left Liverpool. The whole world was still shuddering over the disaster to the _Lusitania_, torpedoed the week before, with the loss of over a thousand souls.

Thorpe drove uptown with Simmy Dodge, who would not hear of his going to an hotel, but conducted him to his own apartment where he was to remain as long as he pleased.

"Get yourself pulled together, old chap, before you take up any work,"

advised Simmy. "You look pretty seedy. We're going to have a hot summer, they say. Don't try to do too much until you pick up a bit. Too bad they're fighting all over the continent of Europe. If they weren't, hang me if I wouldn't pack you onto a boat and take you over there for a good long rest, in spite of what happened to the _Lusitania_. We'll go up into the mountains in June, Brady,-or what do you say to skipping out to the San Francisco fair for a few-"

"You're looking thin and sort of pegged out, old boy," began Simmy soothingly.

"I'm all right, Simmy. Sound as anything. I don't mind telling you that it wasn't my health that drove me out of the service,-and that's what hurts.

They-they didn't want me. They thought it was best for me to get out."

"Good Lord!" gasped Simmy, struggling between amazement and indignation.

"What kind of blithering fools have they got over-"

"They are not blithering fools," said Thorpe soberly. "The staff would not have turned me out, I'm sure of that. I was doing good work, Simmy," he went on rapidly, eagerly, "even though I do say it myself. Everybody was satisfied, I'm sure. Night and day,-all the time,-mind you, and I was standing up under it better than any of them. But, you see, it wasn't the staff that did it. It was the poor devil of a soldier out there in the trenches. They found out who I was. Newspapers, of course. Well, that tells the story. They were afraid of me. But I am not complaining. I do not blame them. G.o.d knows it was hard enough for them to face death out there at the front without having to think of-well, getting it anyhow if they fell into my hands. I-But there's no use speaking of it, Simmy. I wanted you to know why I got out, and I want Anne to know. As for the rest, let them think I was sick or-cowardly if they like."

Simmy was silent for a long time. He said afterwards that it was all he could do to keep from crying as he looked at the pale, gaunt face of his friend and listened to the verdict of the French soldiers.

"I don't see the necessity for telling Anne," he said, at last, pulling rather roughly at his little moustache. They were seated at one of the broad windows in Simmy's living-room, drinking in the cool air that came up from the west in advance of an impending thunderstorm. The day had been hot and stifling. "No sense in letting her know, old man. Secret between you and me, if you don't-"

"I'd rather she knew," said Thorpe briefly. "In fact, she will have to know."

"What do you mean?"

Thorpe was staring out over the Park, and did not answer. Simmy found another cigarette and lighted it, scorching his fingers while furtively watching his companion's face.

"How is Anne, Simmy?" demanded Thorpe abruptly. There was a fierce, eager light in his eyes, but his manner was strangely repressed. "Where is she?"

Simmy took a deep breath. "She's well and she's at home."

"You mean,-down there in the old-"

"The old Thorpe house. I don't know what's got into the girl, Brady. First she swears she won't live in the house, and then she turns around,-just like that,-and moves in. Workmen all over the place, working overtime and all that sort of thing,-with Anne standing around punchin' 'em with a sharp stick if they don't keep right on the job. Top to bottom,-renovated, redecorated, brightened up,-wouldn't recognise the place as-"

"Is she living there-alone?"

"Yes. New lot of servants and-By the way, old Wade has-what do you think he has done?"

"How long has she been living down there?" demanded the other, impatiently. His eyes were gleaming.

"Well, old Wade has gone and got married," went on Simmy, deliberately ignoring the eager question. "Married a girl of twenty or something like that. Chucked his job, bloomed out as a dandy,-spats and chamois gloves and silk hats,-cleared out three weeks ago for a honeymoon,-rather pretty girl, by the way,-"