CHAPTER IX

A WOMAN'S CARE

"He's right now, Eve, dear--right _as_ right. He'll sleep till morning, and then he'll wake up, an'--an' forget about being ill."

It was not so much the words as the tone that brought comfort to Eve.

She was leaning over her brother's bed watching the beautiful face, so waxen now, and listening to his heavy breathing, which was steadily moderating to a normal ease. The boy was sleeping the result of a dose administered to him by Doc Crombie who had been urgently summoned immediately after winning his race with Nature in another part of the village. Elia had been prostrated with a nervous attack which ended in a terrible fit, and Eve, all unaware of what had gone before between her brother and Will, had been hard put to it, in her grief and anxiety.

When the boy first showed signs of illness she sent for Mrs. Gay to find the doctor, and the bright, busy little woman was still with her.

Annie Gay was quite the ant.i.thesis of her husband. She was practical, energetic and, above all things, bright. She was quite young and pretty, and Eve and she were considerable friends. She answered the girl's summons without a moment's delay, and, to her utmost distress, when she arrived, she found Elia in a fierce paroxysm of convulsions.

"You think so, Annie?" Eve's eyes lifted hungrily to her friend's face. They were full of almost painful yearning. This boy's welfare meant more to her than any one knew.

Annie took her arm, and gently drew her from the bedside, nodding her pretty head sagely.

"Sure." Then she added with a great a.s.sumption of knowledge, "You see those weakly creatures like poor Elia have got a lot o' life in them.

You can't kill 'em. Angel allus says that, an' he's sure to know.

Elia's body ain't worth two cents as you might say, but he's got--what's the word--vi--vi----"

"Vitality," suggested Eve.

"Yes, sure. That's it. Now he'll just sleep and sleep. And then he'll be bully when he wakes. So come you and sit down while I make you a drop of hot coffee. Pore girl, you're wore out. There's no end to the troubles o' this world for sure," she added cheerfully, as she hustled off to the kitchen to get the promised coffee.

Eve sat down in her workroom. She was comforted in spite of herself.

Annie Gay's manner was of an order that few could resist; it was illogical, and, perhaps, foolishly optimistic, yet it had that blessed quality of carrying conviction to all who were fortunate enough to lean on her warm, strong heart. And on Eve she practiced her best efforts.

But Eve's anxiety only lay dormant for the time. It was still there gnawing at her heart. She knew the danger of the fits Elia was subject to and a brooding thought clung to her that one day one of these would prove fatal. The least emotion, the least temper, fear, excitement, brought them on. This one--it was the worst she had known. Supposing he had died--she shuddered. Like a saving angel Annie reentered with the coffee in time to interrupt her thoughts.

"Now, dear, you drink this at once," she said. Then she went on, in response to a mute inquiry, "Oh, yes, there's plenty here for me. And when I come back I'm going to make some more, and cook a nice light supper, while you watch the boy, and we can sit here together with his door open until morning."

"But you're not going to stop, Annie," Eve protested. "I can't have that. You must get your sleep. It's very kind of you----"

"Now look right here, Eve," the busy woman said decidedly, "you've got nothing to say about it, please. Do you think I could sleep in my bed with you fretting and worrying your poor, simple heart out? What if he woke up in the night an'--an' had another? Who's to go and fetch Doc?

Now wot I says is duty's duty, and Angel Gay can just snore his head off by himself for once, and I'm not sure but what I shall be glad to be shut of the noise."

The genuine sympathy and kindliness were quite touching, and Eve responded to it as only a woman can.

"Annie," she said, with a wistful smile, "you are the kindest, dearest thing----"

"Now don't you call me a 'thing,' Eve Marsham," the other broke in with a laugh, "or we'll quarrel. I'm just a plain woman with sense enough to say nothing when Gay gets home with more whiskey aboard than is good for his vitals. And don't you think I'm not putting a good value on myself when I say that. Not that Gay's given to sousing a heap. No, he's a good feller, sure, an' wouldn't swap him for--for your Will--on'y when he snores. So you see it's a kindness to me letting me stop to-night."

"You're a dear," Eve cried warmly,--"and I won't say 'thing.' Where are you going now?"

"Why, I'm going to set Angel's cheese an' pickles, and put his coffee on the stove. If he's to home when I get around, maybe I'll sit with him ten minutes or so, an' then I'll come right along back."

She had reached the door, which stood open, and now she paused, looking back.

"When are you gettin' married, Eve?" she demanded abruptly.

"Two months to-day," the other replied. She was surprised out of herself, and for a moment a warm glow swept over her as she realized that there was something still in the world which made for other than unhappiness.

"Two months," said Annie, thoughtfully. "Two months, eh?" Then she suddenly became mysterious and smiled into the other's face. "That'll be nice time for Gay to think about something that ain't--a coffin."

She hurried out on her mission of duty and affection. Gay was her all, but she had room in her heart for a good deal more than the worthy butcher-undertaker's great, fat image. She had no children of her own yet, but, as she often said, in her cheery, optimistic way, "time enough."

It was her att.i.tude toward all things, and it carried her through life a heaven-sent blessing to all those who could number her amongst their friends. To Eve she had certainly been all this and more, for when a woman, alone in the world, is set the appalling task of facing the struggle for existence which is called Life, without the necessary moral and physical equipment for such a battle, the support of a strong heart generously given surely becomes the very acme of all charity.

After drinking her coffee, Eve went to the open door and stood looking out upon the village. It was a warm summer night, and the scent of the prairie was strong upon the air. As yet Barnriff was neither large enough, nor shut in enough by its own buildings to hold to itself that stale, stifling atmosphere which cities obtain. The air was the pure breath which swept over the vast green rollers of the gra.s.s world in the midst of which it stood.

The velvet heavens, clad in their perfect tinsel of a glorious night, spread a softness over the world upon which she gazed. An odd light or two twinkled from a tiny window here and there; and, then, like a vulgar centerpiece, the lights of the saloon stared out harshly. There was no moon, but the mellow sheen of the stars hid the roughness from the mind, and conveyed an added peace.

The girl breathed a deep sigh. It was an expression of relief, of something almost like content. And it told of what Annie Gay's coming had meant to her. As though suddenly released from an insufferable burden her heart cheered, and hope told her that her brother would recover; and, in her relief, she gazed up at the starlit sky and thanked the great G.o.d who controlled those billions of sparkling worlds.

With each pa.s.sing moment her mood lightened, and her thoughts inevitably turned upon those happier things which had been nearly obscured. She was thinking of Will, and wondering what he was doing.

Was he in bed? Was he sleeping and dreaming of her? Or was he awake and thinking of their love, planning for their joint future? Her eyes drifted in the direction of his old hut, where she knew he was to pa.s.s the night. It was in darkness. Yes, he was a-bed, she told herself.

Then she smiled. An idea had flashed through her mind. Should she walk over to the hut, and--and listen at the open window for the sound of his breathing?

Her smile brought with it a blush of modesty, and the idea pa.s.sed.

Then with its going her eyes turned away, and, suddenly, they became fixed upon the indistinct outline of the gate in the fencing of her vegetable patch. She could just make out the figure of a man standing on the far side of it. For the moment the joyous thought that it was Will came to her. Then she negatived the idea. The outline was too large. She thought for a moment, and then, in a low voice, called the man by name.

"Peter? That you?"

The gate opened, and the man's heavy tread came up the narrow path.

"Yes," he said, as he came. "I was just pa.s.sing, and I thought I saw you in the doorway." He had reached the house, and with Eve standing on the door-sill, his rugged face was on a level with hers. "You're kind of late up, Eve," he went on doubtfully. "That's what made me stop. There's nothing amiss with--Elia?" he asked, shrewdly.

It was by no means a haphazard question. He knew what the lad had been through that night. He knew, too, the boy's peculiar nervous temperament and its possibilities.

"What makes you ask?" Eve retorted sharply. She knew something must have happened to the boy, and was wondering if Peter knew what it was. "Why should Elia be ill?"

Peter scratched his rough, gray head. His mild, blue eyes twinkled gently in the lamplight from within the house.

"Well, seeing you were up---- But there, I'm glad it's nothing. I'll pa.s.s on." Then he added: "You see, when a pretty girl gets standing in the doorway late at night--and such a lovely summer night--and she's just--just engaged, I don't guess she wants the company of six foot three of a misspent life. Good-night, Eve, my dear. My best congratulations."

But the girl wanted him. Now he was here she wanted to talk to him particularly.

"Don't go, Peter," she said. "Something is the matter with Elia. He is ill--very ill. He's had the worst fit I've ever known him to have, and--and I don't know if he's going to pull round when he wakes up. He was out late this evening, and I don't know where he's been, or--or what happened to him while he was out. Something must have happened to him. I mean something to upset him--either to anger him, or to terrify him. I wish I knew. It would help me perhaps when he wakes."

Peter's smile had gone. His eyes were full of sympathy. There was also a shadow of trouble in them, too. But Eve did not see it, or, if she did, her understanding was at fault. They stood there for some moments in silence, he so ma.s.sive yet so gentle, she so slight and pretty, yet so filled with a concern which hara.s.sed her mind and heart. Peter was thinking very hard, and though he could have told her all she wanted to know, though his great heart ached for her at the knowledge which was his, he refrained from saying a word that could have betrayed the boy's secret, and the hideous aspect he had witnessed of the man she was going to marry.

"You had the Doc to him?" he inquired.

"Yes, oh yes. Doc dosed him to make him sleep. Annie Gay's been with me helping."