CHAPTER XXIV

THE OLD SOLDIER

CAPTAIN West took charge of the apartment and called another doctor. Ellen’s physician mildly protested against the necessity of such action on the second day of her attack.

The fiery-tempered old man would brook no argument.

“I want a consultation, sir, immediately!” he snapped. “My daughter is dangerously ill. She’s the one human being I have always loved--my other daughter never understood me. I’ll take no chances. Will you call the best doctor in New York to consult with you, sir, or shall I do it myself?”

“Certainly, Captain, at once.”

The consulting physician confirmed the first diagnosis. The evidences of brain fever were unmistakeable.

“Call two trained nurses,” the Captain ordered.

For a week the old man never left her bedside during the day except to take his meals. The first hour of his watch he had caught a sentence from her fevered lips that set his brain on fire. He insisted on every moment by her that his strength would permit. The night nurse usually had to drag him to his room. And he would often suddenly reappear at the door staring at the prostrate figure, a strange glitter in the depths of his eyes. The nurse was alarmed for his reason and insisted on the doctor prescribing for his insomnia.

He threw the medicine out of the window.

“Don’t bring any more of that stuff to me!” he growled. “I’ll let you know if I need it.”

By the end of the third day the fever suddenly began to subside and her brain to clear. The old man watched her with his keen eyes trying to pierce the depths of her soul.

The hard light in them softened as he saw her smile for the first time.

“So you’ve come, dad!” she murmured.

“Yes, my baby,” he answered cheerfully; “but you must not talk. The doctor says you’ll get well. That’s all I ask of the darn fools. They’ve got no sense anyhow.”

“Then--why--send--for--them?”

The Captain lifted his hand in stern command.

“Don’t talk!”

Ellen smiled, extended her hand and pressed his. He bowed his gray head and kissed it tenderly.

At the end of two more weeks the nurses were dismissed. She had recovered with remarkable speed. The doctor was surprised. A hidden reserve power within had set at naught all predictions of a protracted illness.

“I’m not surprised,” the old man snapped; “my daughter’s the most remarkable woman I ever knew. No two human beings, sir, are alike.”

He would have given the doctor a lecture on physiology had he been willing to listen.

He excused himself with a smile.

“Call me, Captain, if she needs me,” he said at the door.

The old soldier waved him off impatiently.

“She’s all right, sir!”

Three days later he dismissed the nurses. Dora could now attend her simple needs.

He suddenly appeared in her room dressed with unusual care. He spoke with an obvious effort to appear at ease.

“I’m worn out with the loss of sleep, baby,” he announced. “I’ve decided to run down to Lakewood for a few days.”

“To Lakewood!”

“Yes. You’re all right now. I’ll be back at the end of the week. I’ve an old war comrade down there. I’ll make him a little visit.”

Ellen watched furtively.

The truth suddenly flashed on her. She had talked in her delirium. He had heard and pieced together the facts of her love for Manning, his betrayal and desertion. Merciful God! what had she said? Possibly everything. And what she had not said he had probably learned from Rose’s letters. Once his suspicions aroused she knew him too well to doubt that he would hesitate at nothing. They had allowed her to read no mail.

A terrible fear chilled her.

“You mustn’t leave me now, dad,” she faltered.

“Why, you’re all right. Dora’s a good girl. She’ll look after you and the doctor’s just around the corner.”

“I don’t feel well this morning,” she insisted.

“Pooh! pooh!” he growled. “You just want to boss your daddy as you always did. Go to sleep; I’ve got to catch a train.”

He bent and kissed her good-by and turned quickly to go. Her keen eye in the turn caught the tragic purpose in the grim set face.

She leaped to her feet with a cry, sprang on him at the door and before he could recover from his surprise drew the revolver from his pocket.

She pushed him into a chair and slammed the door.

“What does this mean?” she sternly demanded.

The old man’s breast heaved with emotion.

“It--means--that I am going to blow the brains out of the cur who has ruined my daughter!”

“Oh--no--you’re not,” was the cool reply.

“You can’t stop me!”

“Yes, I can!”

She was deliberately removing the cartridges from the revolver. She placed it under her pillow and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“There are plenty of guns and I know how to use them, thank God,” he muttered.

“But you won’t use them, dad.”

The old man sprang to his feet and turned toward the door.

“By God, I’ll show you!”

She seized his arm and led him to the bedside.

“Sit down now and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“The whole truth and nothing but the truth?” he demanded.

“The whole, bitter truth,” she repeated sadly.

Without reservation, without excuse or palliation she told him the story of her life in New York, of her meeting with Manning, of their love-affair, of her forcing him into the free alliance of her new creed, of their bickering and quarrelling, jealousy and unhappiness. With simple honesty she told of the coming of Rose, of their resistless love, of the fight he had made, of the girl’s innocence of their former relations, of her sacrifice of herself and their marriage.

The old soldier had sunk lower and lower with each turn of the story. He asked no questions. He knew that she was telling the brutal truth without mercy to herself.

At the end she drew the revolver out and handed it to him.

“Now, I’ll give you back your revolver. Do you wish to go to Lakewood?”

“No, my baby,” he answered dully; “I just wish to die--now--that’s all!”

“Why, why, my poor dad,” she asked pathetically, “do you still believe in the magic of a marriage ceremony when yours trapped you in a prison which only the death of my mother opened at last?”

The gray figure stiffened.

“Marriage, my child, is a divine sacrament--the great social ordinance on which human civilization rests. The fact that your mother and I made a mistake does not change this. I have nothing to live for now. You were the apple of my eye--I’m done!”

She slipped her arms about his neck, her head against his breast, and let the tears flow unheeded for a moment.

“You mustn’t feel that way, dad,” she murmured. “We have each other; and for me it’s still the morning of life.”

There was a dead look in his eyes as he slowly shook his head.