The Cost [91]
wild eyes, with lips blue and ajar, the sweat streaming from his forehead.
"What have I done?" he shrieked, mad with the dread of death. "I must call for help." He turned toward the door, plunged forward, fell unconscious, the revolver flung half-way across the room.
When he came to his senses he was in his bed--comfortable, weak, lazy. With a slight effort he caught the thread of events. He turned his eyes and saw a nurse, seated at the head of his bed, reading. "Am I going to die?" he asked--his voice was thin and came in faint gusts.
"Certainly not," replied the nurse, putting down her book and standing over him, her face showing genuine reassurance and cheerfulness.
"You'll be well very soon. But you must lie quiet and not talk."
"Was it a bad wound?"
"The fever was the worst. The bullet glanced round just under the surface."
"It was an accident," he said, after a moment's thought. "I suppose everybody is saying I tried to kill myself."
"`Everybody' doesn't know anything about it. Almost nobody knows. Even the servants don't know. Your secretary sent them away, broke in and found you."
He closed his eyes and slept.
When he awoke again he felt that a long time had passed, that he was much better, that he was hungry. "Nurse!" he called.
The woman at the head of the bed rose and laid a cool hand upon his forehead. "How good that feels," he mumbled gratefully. "What nice hands you have, nurse," and he lifted his glance to her face. He stared wonderingly, confusedly. "I thought I was awake and almost well," he murmured. "And instead, I'm out of my head."
"Can I do anything for you?" It certainly was HER voice.
"Is it you, Pauline?" he asked, as if he feared a negative answer.
"Yes--John."
A long silence, then he said: "Why did you come?"
"The doctor wrote me that--wrote me the truth."
"But haven't you heard? Haven't you seen the papers? Don't they say I'm ruined?"
"Yes, John."
He lay silent for several minutes. Then he asked hesitatingly: "And--when--do you--go back--West?"
"I have come to stay," she replied. Neither in her voice nor in her face was there a hint of what those five words meant to her.
He closed his eyes again. Presently a tear slid from under each lid and stood in the deep, wasted hollows of his eye-sockets.
XXVI.
A DESPERATE RALLY.
When he awoke again he felt that he should get well rapidly. He was weak, but it seemed the weakness of hunger rather than of illness. His head was clear, his nerves tranquil; his mind was as hungry for action as his body was for food.
"As soon as I've had something to eat," he said to himself, "I'll be better than for years. I needed this." And straightway he began to take hold of the outside world.
"Are you there, Pauline?" he asked, after perhaps half an hour during which his mind had swiftly swept the whole surface of his affairs.
The nurse rose from the lounge across the foot of the bed. "Your wife was worn out, Mr. Dumont," she began. "She has--"
"What day is it?" he interrupted.
"Thursday."
"Of the month, I mean."
"The seventeenth," she answered, smiling in anticipation of his astonishment.
But he said without change of expression,
"Then I've been ill three weeks and three days. Tell Mr. Culver I wish to see him at once."
"But the doctor--"
"Damn the doctor," replied Dumont, good-naturedly. "Don't irritate me by opposing. I shan't talk with Culver a minute by the clock. What I say will put my mind at rest. Then I'll eat something and sleep for a day at least."
The nurse hesitated, but his eyes fairly forced her out of the room to fetch Culver. "Now remember, Mr. Dumont--less than a minute," she said. "I'll come back in just sixty seconds."
"Come in forty," he replied. When she had closed the door he said to Culver: "What are the quotations on Woolens?"
"Preferred twenty-eight; Common seven," answered Culver. "They've been about steady for two weeks."
"Good. And what's Great Lakes and Gulf?"
Culver showed
"What have I done?" he shrieked, mad with the dread of death. "I must call for help." He turned toward the door, plunged forward, fell unconscious, the revolver flung half-way across the room.
When he came to his senses he was in his bed--comfortable, weak, lazy. With a slight effort he caught the thread of events. He turned his eyes and saw a nurse, seated at the head of his bed, reading. "Am I going to die?" he asked--his voice was thin and came in faint gusts.
"Certainly not," replied the nurse, putting down her book and standing over him, her face showing genuine reassurance and cheerfulness.
"You'll be well very soon. But you must lie quiet and not talk."
"Was it a bad wound?"
"The fever was the worst. The bullet glanced round just under the surface."
"It was an accident," he said, after a moment's thought. "I suppose everybody is saying I tried to kill myself."
"`Everybody' doesn't know anything about it. Almost nobody knows. Even the servants don't know. Your secretary sent them away, broke in and found you."
He closed his eyes and slept.
When he awoke again he felt that a long time had passed, that he was much better, that he was hungry. "Nurse!" he called.
The woman at the head of the bed rose and laid a cool hand upon his forehead. "How good that feels," he mumbled gratefully. "What nice hands you have, nurse," and he lifted his glance to her face. He stared wonderingly, confusedly. "I thought I was awake and almost well," he murmured. "And instead, I'm out of my head."
"Can I do anything for you?" It certainly was HER voice.
"Is it you, Pauline?" he asked, as if he feared a negative answer.
"Yes--John."
A long silence, then he said: "Why did you come?"
"The doctor wrote me that--wrote me the truth."
"But haven't you heard? Haven't you seen the papers? Don't they say I'm ruined?"
"Yes, John."
He lay silent for several minutes. Then he asked hesitatingly: "And--when--do you--go back--West?"
"I have come to stay," she replied. Neither in her voice nor in her face was there a hint of what those five words meant to her.
He closed his eyes again. Presently a tear slid from under each lid and stood in the deep, wasted hollows of his eye-sockets.
XXVI.
A DESPERATE RALLY.
When he awoke again he felt that he should get well rapidly. He was weak, but it seemed the weakness of hunger rather than of illness. His head was clear, his nerves tranquil; his mind was as hungry for action as his body was for food.
"As soon as I've had something to eat," he said to himself, "I'll be better than for years. I needed this." And straightway he began to take hold of the outside world.
"Are you there, Pauline?" he asked, after perhaps half an hour during which his mind had swiftly swept the whole surface of his affairs.
The nurse rose from the lounge across the foot of the bed. "Your wife was worn out, Mr. Dumont," she began. "She has--"
"What day is it?" he interrupted.
"Thursday."
"Of the month, I mean."
"The seventeenth," she answered, smiling in anticipation of his astonishment.
But he said without change of expression,
"Then I've been ill three weeks and three days. Tell Mr. Culver I wish to see him at once."
"But the doctor--"
"Damn the doctor," replied Dumont, good-naturedly. "Don't irritate me by opposing. I shan't talk with Culver a minute by the clock. What I say will put my mind at rest. Then I'll eat something and sleep for a day at least."
The nurse hesitated, but his eyes fairly forced her out of the room to fetch Culver. "Now remember, Mr. Dumont--less than a minute," she said. "I'll come back in just sixty seconds."
"Come in forty," he replied. When she had closed the door he said to Culver: "What are the quotations on Woolens?"
"Preferred twenty-eight; Common seven," answered Culver. "They've been about steady for two weeks."
"Good. And what's Great Lakes and Gulf?"
Culver showed