Do I think his perambulator gets damp in the bas.e.m.e.nt store-room? The grocer's bill was nineteen shillings last week. In "my girl's time" (I love to hear him say "My girl!") it was never above thirteen. Miss Brown, the housekeeper, is hinting that she needs a holiday. It would be a relief to be rid of her, but--who would take charge while she was away?

"Why not make it a general holiday? Lend me the little girls, farm out the babies to relations, throw off responsibilities, and have a real laze yourself. You know you would love it!" I said. "Haven't you a man friend who would take you away?"

"Oh, rather. The best of fellows. We were boys together. He's had a stiff time, too, so he understands. Miss Harding, what a brick you are!

Will you really take the girls? I say"--his face lit up with the boyish smile--"it would be a chance to buy them some clothes. Would you do it? Miss Brown has no taste. It's been one of my trials. My girl was so dainty. A pretty hat apiece, and a frock, and stockings to match--that wouldn't break the bank, would it? Do you think five pounds--"

I waved a protesting hand.

"Heaps! Heaps! Leave it to me. I'll make them as pretty as pictures.

When--er--when I was young, I was fond of dress. I was considered to have good taste."

He smiled at me in the kind, forbearing manner in which people do smile at elderly women who exploit their own youth, and said vaguely:--

"Yes, I am sure--I am quite sure. Well, I must be off. Thank you for all your kindness."

He departed, but the very next night the maid brought a message to ask if Miss Harding had a thermometer. If so, would she be so very kind as to take Billie's temperature, as he seemed restless and feverish? I draped myself in the Paisley shawl in which I flatter myself I look my plainest and most ancient, ran upstairs, and was shown into Billie's bedroom. He was sitting up in his cot, looking so pretty with his dishevelled golden curls, his big bright eyes, and the fever flush on his cheeks. I guessed 102 at sight; but it was worse than that--close on 103. I gave the thermometer the professional shake, looking, as I felt, pretty serious and troubled, whereupon Miss Brown took alarm at once, being evidently the useful kind of woman who loses her head in illness.

"Is he going to be ill? I don't understand poultices and fomentations; couldn't take the responsibility! As things are, there is more work than I can get through. I hope you will tell Mr Thorold that if Billie is going to be ill, it is absolutely necessary to have help."

I calmed her, and went into the dining-room to report. The air was full of smoke, and Mr Thorold was sitting at one side of the fireplace, talking to another man who was facing him from another big leather chair. They both sprang up at my entrance, and Mr Thorold said:--

"This is my friend, Mr Hallett, of whom I spoke to you lately. We are discussing the possibility of a short trip. Edgar, this is Miss Harding, a very kind neighbour. She has come up on an errand of mercy to see one of the babies, who is a bit off colour. How do you find the small man, Miss Harding?"

He was not a bit anxious. In the interest of the talk with an old friend, the baby ailment had faded from his mind. I hated to bring the shadow to his face, but it had to be done.

"Billie has a high temperature, Mr Thorold. I think a doctor ought to see him."

He looked shocked--incredulous.

"To-night! Wouldn't to-morrow morning--?"

"I should advise you to see him to-night. It may be nothing but a feverish cold, but it is half the battle to start treatment in time. He is nearly 103."

"I will telephone at once," he said shortly, and marched out of the room.

The tenants of Heath Mansions do not, as a rule, run to the extravagance of possessing a private telephone, but down in the bas.e.m.e.nt there is a species of ice cupboard, where, in surroundings of abject dreariness, we deposit our pence and shout messages, to the entertainment and enlightenment of the maids at "Well" windows. Mr Thorold was bound for this haunt, and the nice Mr Hallett and I sat down to entertain one another during his absence.

He is nice! I liked him the moment I saw him, and I went on liking him more and more. He is a big, powerfully-built man, but his face is thin, the fine moulding of the bones showing distinctly beneath their slight covering. The clean line of his jaw is a joy to behold; his eyes are dark and unusually deep-set--I would say "cavernous," if I had not a particular dislike to the word. He has large, expressive hands, and a low-pitched, unusually deliberate way of talking.

"I hope the youngster is not going to develop anything serious!"

"I hope not. He is a dear little fellow. It is so sad to see a child ill."

"It is; but--frankly!" he said, with a slow, grave glance, "I was thinking more of my friend. He has had more than his share of trouble, and another spell of anxiety would be hard luck. It's a big strain on a man to play father _and_ mother to a growing family."

"There is one thing which would be harder! To have no growing family to look after, and to take his mind off himself."

He looked at me sharply, and as sharply looked away. I had a lightning impression that I had touched a tender spot, but it pa.s.sed the next moment at sound of the perfectly calm, perfectly controlled voice:--

"You think that is so? I should be glad to agree, but Frank has lost an ideal companion. I did not imagine that such young children could fill the gap--"

"In a sense they never can, but they fill so many smaller gaps that it is impossible to think of the big one all the time. If you had any idea what it is to live in a flat this size, with five small children tumbling over each other all day long, laughing and quarrelling and getting into mischief on every conceivable occasion, behaving like perfect little fiends one hour and angels straight from heaven the next--well, you would realise that there isn't much time left over to sit down and nurse a private woe!"

He smiled. He smiles, as the Scotch say, "with deefficulty". The lines of his face are all set for gravity and reserve.

"That is so. But at night? After such a tornado the solitary evenings must seem lonelier than ever."

"I don't imagine there is much time for reflection. There is generally some work to keep him going. Rupert has a weakness for dropping things down the sinks. Last week, for a change, he drove a nail into a gas-pipe. And there are the bills to pay, and new things to order, and endless notes of inquiry and arrangements to be written. His evenings are well filled up."

"I see you are a believer in counter-irritants." The deep-set eyes rested on me with a speculative glance. A practical, unimaginative woman, who has neither understanding nor sympathy for romance--that was obviously the verdict. If he only knew! If he only knew!

Presently Mr Thorold came back and said the doctor would come round almost at once. Would I be so very good as to stay to hear his verdict?

Miss Brown was not much use in cases of illness. She lost her head.

The trouble to me seems to be that she has lost her heart--if she ever had one to lose!

The doctor said that Billie had bronchitis, and that his lungs were not quite clear. Someone must sit up with him, keep a bronchitis kettle going, and see that he did not kick off the clothes. His temperature must be taken at certain hours. A great deal might depend upon the next few hours. He was afraid it might be difficult to get in a nurse before morning. Was there anyone who could--

Miss Brown promptly put herself out of the running, so what was there left for me to do but modestly to confess that I had pa.s.sed two Red Cross examinations, could flick a thermometer with the best, and baffle the tricks of the most obstinate bronchitis kettle that ever overbalanced itself, or spat hot water instead of steam.

The three men stood round looking at me with big, grateful eyes, and though I was honestly sorry about Billie, deep down at the bottom of my heart I _glowed_. This was in very deed being of use! Here was real work lying ready at my hand!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A STRUGGLE FOR A LIFE.

Billie has been desperately ill. For three weeks he has lain at the point of death, his little life hanging by a thread. Two trained nurses have been in attendance, and a third unofficial one, in the person of old Miss Harding! Winifred and Marion are living in my flat; Bridget looks after them, and does our own housekeeping, and also supplements Miss Brown's efforts, which are, to put it mildly, inadequate for the occasion. She does not seem to realise that when people are torn with anxiety they don't appreciate boiled mutton; and that when they sit up half the night, waiting in sickening suspense to hear the next temperature, a hot cup of chocolate can be more precious than rubies.

Therefore Bridget and I manufacture dainties, and carry them upstairs to supplement the supplies.

For the first few days the illness took a normal course, and anxiety, though real, was not acute; but on the fourth day strength failed noticeably, and oxygen was ordered to help the clogged lungs to work.

At first it was given every two hours, then hourly, then every half-hour, and every woman who knows anything about nursing understands what _that_ means, plus doses of brandy, struggles to pour as much milk as possible down an unwilling throat, and a constant taking of pulse and temperature, to say nothing of hypodermic injections at those awful moments when there seems no pulse to feel. It means that no one woman, be she ever so competent, can keep up the fight single-handed for twelve hours at a stretch, and that an understudy to work under her may mean the very turning of the scale. I have been understudy by night, and proud I am to record that Nurse proclaims me unusually "handy" for a member of the "laity". Hour after hour we have fought together for the little darling's life, while he lay unconscious against the piled cushions, a waxen image, unrecognisable as the bonnie curly-headed Billie we had loved. We racked our brains to think of new means and new contrivances to fight the ever-increasing danger. With the aid of screens and a sheet we contrived a tent over his cot, through a hole in which the elongated cardboard funnel of the steam-kettle could enter and give increased relief to the breathing. We made mustard poultices with white of egg instead of water, to save needless irritation of the skin; we used the French expedient of putting quinine pads under the armpits to reduce the terrible temperature. Nurse was indefatigable--a miracle of energy and resource--but through all her anxiety and tenderness for the little patient, it was impossible not to recognise the keen professional zest in a "good case."

"Give me a bad pneumonia, and I'm happy!" said she, frankly, and she meant what she said.

At those rare intervals when Billie fell into a fitful sleep, I used to steal out of the room and pay a visit to the dining-room, where, on two arm-chairs on opposite sides of the fire, the poor father and his friend sat drearily smoking, and waiting until the small hours of the morning.

It was useless to tell Mr Thorold to go to bed. His wife had breathed her last at two o'clock in the morning, and he was possessed by a dread that Billie would do the same. At three or thereabouts he might be persuaded to move, but until then it was but a waste of breath to ask it. Poor fellow! To have his old friend by his side was the best comfort that was left, but how he must have missed his wife, and how endlessly, breathlessly long the hours must have seemed, sitting with folded hands, with nothing to do but to wait! Even I--an outsider--was oppressed by the difference in the atmosphere of the two rooms. In the sick-room there was suffering indeed, but there was also a constant, earnest fight; here, the heavy, smoke-filled air seemed to breathe of despair!

On those midnight visits, the first thing I did after giving my report, was to open the window, and the second to make a jug of chocolate, beating the powder in the milk till it foamed, in tempting continental fashion. The men shivered and protested. They were in a draught; they were not hungry; they wanted neither chocolate nor sandwiches; but I went on with my preparations in an elderly, persistent fashion, and said if they didn't--well, I did, and I hoped they would not grudge me a little refreshment in the midst of my labours. By the time that the little meal was prepared, the smoke had cleared away and left a little air to breathe, so then I made a favour of shutting the window and poking the fire, and we would sit down together, and--it was wonderful how much we could eat! If Aunt Eliza could have seen me then, what--oh, what would she have said! How I blessed the grey wig and the spectacles, and the few deft, disfiguring touches which made my presence so easy and comfortable, not only for myself but for those two poor, sad, helpless young men. However much one may rail against convention, it remains an unalterable fact that youth and good looks are _not_ the best qualification for indiscriminate work among one's fellow-creatures.

I must remember this fact when I grow really old, and apply it as balm to my wounded vanity.

Over the chocolate and sandwiches we would talk--not about Billie, if possible; and I learnt that the two men had first met at Harrow, had then been separated for many years, and had renewed the old friendship during the last two years.

There is evidently a strong sympathy between them--a sympathy of suffering, I think, for with all his charm, it is evident that Mr Hallett is not a happy man. He says little about himself, but I gather that he travels a great deal, that he writes for various reviews, and that--to say the least of it--he is not overburdened with wealth. He never mentions any "belongings," and is evidently unmarried. I wonder why, for he is certainly unusually attractive. Sometimes when we have been sitting talking together, I have been so conscious of this attraction that I have had quite a violent longing to be Evelyn Wastneys once more, and to meet him, so to speak, on his own ground!

He is most nice to me--oh, most nice! He thinks me a kind, sensible, generous old dear; says I deserve a Victoria Cross, and that no block of mansions is complete without me. One night he asked me smilingly if I would come and nurse him if he were ill; another time he said he could almost find it in his heart to wish that my money would disappear, so that he could engage me as a permanent housekeeper. Then Mr Thorold interrupted, and said that the first claim was his, and that if my services were to be bought, no other man should have them unless over his own dead body. They argued jestingly, while I blushed--a hot, overwhelming blush, and seeing it, they paused, looking mystified and distressed, and abruptly changed the conversation. Did they think me ridiculous and a prude, or did that blush for the moment obliterate the sham signs of age, and show them for the moment the face of a girl? I should like to know, but probably I never shall.

For four long weeks Billie's life hung in the balance, for after the pneumonia crisis was pa.s.sed, unconsciousness continued, and the terrible word "meningitis" was whispered from lip to lip. There were heart-breaking days to be lived through, when the terror was no longer that he might die, but that he might live--deprived of speech, of hearing, possibly of reason itself. Never while I live shall I forget those days; but looking back, I can realise that they have taught me one great lesson, branded it on heart and brain so that I can never, never forget. The lesson is that death is not the last and worst enemy which we are so apt to think it when our dear ones are in its grasp. Oh, there were hours of darkness in which death seemed to us a lovely and beautiful thing, when we blamed ourselves for shrinking from the wrench of giving back a little child into G.o.d's tender care. Who could compare a darkened life on earth with the perfected powers, the unimaginable glories of eternity? There were times when our prayers were reversed, and we asked G.o.d to take Billie home!