XXI

Julie Craig was a romantic little thing, and the drama in which she had been assigned a role was quite to her liking. It was not a fat part as to voluminosity of lines, but it kept her almost continuously on the stage in the thick of action.

Very thrilling it was to feel herself the chief custodian of so valuable a secret. She had resolved to safeguard it against any hazard until the impressive moment arrived for its sensational release.

As for Doctor Ardmore’s attitude toward the matter, he was so hilarious that morning, to learn of the complete success of young Merrick’s operation that it mattered little to him when or how his attractive patient should discover the identity of her benefactor. Ardmore was British. It occurred to him that whatever misunderstandings might have estranged these two interesting young Americans, the machinery of reconciliation was now in good running order. If they couldn’t execute some kind of a treaty in the face of this theatrical lifesaving event, they deserved to go their separate ways without expectation of sympathy.

Donelli, by race and temperament cordial toward the grand opera aspects of the situation, rather hoped the fair patient’s identification of Merrick might not be brought about until she was at least sufficiently clear of mind to get a real emotional wallop out of the occasion, and sincerely hoped he might find some good reason to be present when it happened.

Julie was for postponing the great moment as long as possible. To her active imagination it was a situation to be nibbled at appreciatively; toyed with⁠—cat and mouse fashion; savoured, rolled about on the tongue. She could not conceive anything more bitterly disappointing than a prosaic anticlimax, now that the dramatic materials were all in hand for a perfectly whopping curtain! It made her shudder to contemplate the possibility of his popping into the room while his idol was in the throes of nausea, as she was almost sure to be, a dozen times before the day was out. The whole affair, Julie decided, should be insured against a commonplace outcome, and dedicated herself to that movement with almost as much concern as if she were one of the principals.

Pursuant to that determination she had left word at the office that she wished to communicate with Doctor Merrick as soon as he returned from breakfast and the brief nap he had promised himself. When the message came up that the young American surgeon was in the building, Julie went to the stairs to meet him. He greeted her warmly, told her she had been very faithful, suggested she would be better off for a few hours’ sleep. He would see to it that she was relieved at once.

She shook her head.

“I am not sleepy. I shall wait until this afternoon. Doctor Ardmore told me my patient was not to know who was treating her. So⁠—I have restored the bandage to her eyes. I told her they should not encounter the strong light for several hours. I hope I haven’t done wrong, sir.”

“You are very resourceful,” said Bobby, endeavouring to keep a straight face. “Is there, by any chance, something else I ought to know before looking in?”

She coloured with conscious pride.

“Yes, sir. If you don’t mind, I have told her that since she does not speak Italian fluently, whatever conversation she may have with you is to be interpreted by me⁠ ⁠… And Doctor Donelli can be asked in, this morning, while you make the examination. Is that agreeable?”

“Miss Craig,” said Bobby solemnly, “you’re wasting your talents here. You should belong to the diplomatic corps.”

“I hope you’re not making fun, sir⁠ ⁠… Doctor Ardmore said she wasn’t to know⁠—and I saw no other way of keeping it from her.”

“You have done very nicely,” commended Bobby. “I’ll wash up and change my coat.”

Helen had been creeping out of her etherized torpor, at closer intervals of full consciousness, since seven; had even smiled gratefully under Julie’s little tendernesses.

“So glad!” she had murmured when Julie assured her she was going to be well and sound as ever.

“And⁠—I can see!”

She raised a white hand and tugged weakly at the edge of the bandage over her eyes. Julie hastened to restore it.

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” she promised. “He wants them protected today.”

“Very well,” with an obedient sigh, “he ought to know, I suppose.”

Julie was a tense little figure when Doctor Merrick came in, arrayed in his borrowed surgical gown, accompanied by the volatile Donelli who greeted her with a bombardment of praise for having contributed so much to this happy eventuality. She returned a volley warning him against an accidental disclosure of their secret. Donelli nodded vigorously and chuckled.

Doctor Merrick stepped at once to the bedside table, consulted the chart, and proceeded to verify the latest pulse-count.

“Please tell the doctor,” said Helen slowly, “that the bandage around my chest is so very tight. Could he make it more comfortable?”

Julie dutifully relayed the request in a swift Italian sentence composed of one word of two hundred syllables⁠—mostly vowels.

Seeing that the surgical bandage around her chest had been Donelli’s affair, it was only a natural courtesy for Doctor Merrick to permit his colleague to decide whether or not he wished it changed. Stepping back, he silently signed to Doctor Donelli that this matter was up to him. But Donelli vehemently protested, with outspread fingers, that he was only too eager to discover his guest’s technique.

The opportunity for a debate not being favourable, Bobby turned down the sheet, examined the broad bandage, unpinned it, unfolded it down to the creamy-white satin skin, carefully inspected the discoloured field of the fractures, and expertly replaced the bandage.

“Oh⁠—that is ever so much better,” sighed his patient, gratefully.

Julie shook loose a cascade of musical Italian, and the doctor grunted his receipt of it.

“He has very gentle hands,” murmured Helen sleepily.

“Shall I tell him that, madame?” asked Julie, her eyes brightly searching his face.

“No⁠ ⁠… Tell him I am thankful he has made me see again.”

Impulsively Bobby entertained a foolhardy notion. In a clumsy Italian phrase, remembered from boyhood, he mumbled something about the pleasure being all his own⁠—and dismayed by his own audacity, walked to the window to write a prescription.

Julie’s eyes were intent upon her patient’s half-covered face. She was about to interpret the doctor’s remark when she noted that the full lips parted; then, that the lower lip was gently pinioned between an even row of white teeth, while the dimples deepened ever so little and a slow flush crept across her cheeks.

With agitated fingers, Julie refastened the smock at the throat, her sentimental little heart beating wildly⁠ ⁠… She knows!⁠—thought Julie⁠ ⁠… Bending over her, she said gently:

“But perhaps you understood what the doctor was just saying. Is it not so?”

There was no reply. She had drowsed off again. But the smile lingered on her lips, and the flush lingered on her cheeks.

As they went out, Doctor Merrick beckoned Julie to the door and said, in an undertone:

“You might remove that bandage from her eyes while she sleeps. It will be more comfortable.”

Two hours later she roused again. Having soberly regarded Julie for some minutes, she fumbled at the neck of her smock and drew out the little silver cross. Holding it tightly in both hands and pressing it to her heart, she inquired:

“How did you know I wanted it?”

“I did not know, madame; or you should have had it from the first.”

There was a long pause.

“When did you put it on me? I just now discovered it.”

“I did not put it on you, madame.”

There was another long silence.

Observing that her patient was dabbing clumsily at her eyes with the corner of the sheet, Julie hastened to restore her handkerchief; then turned and walked thoughtfully to the window.

“Did you see him do it?”

Julie did not turn from the window as she replied, unsteadily:

“No, madame. He invited me to leave the room.”

“The⁠—poor⁠—dear!”

At nine that evening Marion Dawson arrived and Bobby met her at the station.

Immediately upon reading the news of the accident, she had been fortunate in making connections with the best westbound train of the day. Her frantic telegram of inquiry, addressed to the hospital when en route, had been handed to Merrick who had wired reassuringly to her train. She had received the message at ten. It did not greatly surprise her to have a telegram from him, knowing that he would have been likely to see the account of the disaster while in Paris.

“Oh, Bobby⁠—how wonderful!” she exclaimed tearfully, when he told her that everything was favourable to a prompt recovery. “Can I see her?”

“Better not tonight. She will be brighter in the morning.”

“And I suppose you two blessed things have found that you’re necessary to each other, haven’t you?”

“Well⁠—not yet,” he said, hesitatingly. “You see, I have her at a rather awkward disadvantage. I performed the operation myself. I don’t wish to make capital of any obligation she might feel toward me. In fact⁠—she doesn’t know I’m here, at all.”

Marion was pink with indignation. The taxi-driver stood by the open door of the cab waiting for them to step in; but she ignored the gesture and blazed at her compatriot angrily.

“Bobby Merrick⁠—I think that’s simply disgraceful! You’ve always kept the dear soul in the dark and made her feel irresponsible. And here you are again with some more of your wretched secrets! Well⁠—we’ll see if you’re going to use her that way, this time! When I see her in the morning, I mean to tell her! You don’t need to think I’m a party to any more of these mysteries!”

He rather suspected that she meant it. On the short ride over to the Quirinal where he had reserved a room for her, he told her as much as he could explain of the operation, attempting to divert her attention from her annoyance over his attitude towards Helen.

“I am leaving in the morning for Vienna,” he said, after making sure she was receiving proper attention at the hotel desk. “Doctor Donelli can do the dressings as well as I. There is no danger now, and no reason for my staying on; especially since you seem bent on informing her.”

“It’s the only decent thing to do,” retorted Marion obdurately. “She has a right to know⁠ ⁠… Well⁠—give my love to Jack and tell him I’ll be back when Helen doesn’t need me any more. I wonder if she’ll forgive me!”

“I hope so, my dear; but I wouldn’t bet much on it⁠ ⁠… Goodbye!”

Later in the evening he had a consultation with Donelli and felt confident he was leaving his patient in competent hands. He stepped into Helen’s room, found her sleeping, took her hand and held it for a moment, and walked out with only a nod for the nurse who had relieved Julie. At the desk he scribbled a note to her, thanking her for “exceptional faithfulness and originality,” and enclosed a substantial tender of gratitude (part of which she used to defray a three months’ vacation in Switzerland).

Reconciliation was effected promptly and silently, the next morning, when Marion called. They kissed each other and wept a little. Julie excused herself and left them alone together.

“Helen, dear,” whispered Marion, the moment the door had closed, “you could never guess who did your operation?”

“Oh, yes, I could,” drawled Helen, smiling.

“Good! He thought he had such a secret! When did you find out?”

She laughed⁠—with a little wince of pain.

“He talked some Italian for me, yesterday.”

“And you recognized his voice?”

“Instantly.”

“He doesn’t know it; I am confident.”

“Well, he probably will before the day is over.”

Before Marion had a chance to reply, Doctor Donelli came bustling in, trailed by Julie, and smilingly approached the bedside.

Helen looked up inquiringly.

“Isn’t Doctor Merrick coming this morning, Miss Craig?”

Julie shook her head.

“He left for Vienna at seven, dear,” said Marion. “I told him I intended to tell you he was here, so⁠—off he goes!”

“How like him!” said Helen, smiling.