The Fighter

The sky was gray with morning as Conover stumbled into a sitting room of the little Magdeburg Hotel. Two men turned toward him. One of them, his arm in a sling—a great plaster patch on his forehead and dried blood caking his face,—hurried forward. Caleb looked twice before he recognized Jack Hawarden.

“Thank Heaven you’re here!” exclaimed the lad. “She—”

“She’s alive yet?” croaked the Fighter.

“Yes, yes! In there,” pointing to a closed door. “Wait!” as Caleb reached the door at a bound. “Dr. Bond is dressing some of her hurts again. He’ll be through in a minute. Then I’ll take you in. Mr. Conover, this is the Reverend Mr. Grant. He has been very, very kind. He helped us lift the wreckage from her, and—”

“Is she goin’ to get well?” demanded Caleb, wheeling about on the clergyman.

“All is being done that mortal skill can do,” answered Mr. Grant with gentle evasion, “The local physician—”

“‘Local physician?’” mocked Caleb. “Here, Hawarden! Sit down there an’ tel’graph to Dr. Hawes an’ Dr. Clay at Granite. Tell ’em to come here in a rush an’ bring along the best nurses they can find. Tel’graph my office in my name to give ’em a Special an’ to clear the tracks for ’em. Tel’graph to Noo York, too, for the best specialists they’ve got. An—”

“I’m afraid, sir” interposed the clergyman, “there is no use in sending to New York. No doctor there could reach Magdeburg—in time.”

“You do’s I say!” Caleb ordered the lad. Then turning fiercely on Mr. Grant he demanded:

“What d’you mean by sayin’ he won’t get here on time? She’s goin’ to get well, if a couple of million dollars worth of med’cal ’tention can cure her. If not—”

“If not, sir,” said the clergyman, speaking tenderly as a father, “we must bear God’s will. For such as she there is no fear. She has the white soul of a child. She will go out of this lesser life of ours borne on the strong arm of Christ. She—”

“No ‘fear’ for her?” yelled Conover, catching but a single phrase in the other’s attempt at comfort, “Who the hell is fearin’ for her? That girl’s fit to look on God’s own face an’ live. It’s for me that I’m afraid. For me that I’m afraid. For me that she’d leave to live on without her through all the damned dreariness of the years. What’d there be in it for me to know she was in heaven? I want her. I want her here. With me! An’ she’d rather be with me. I know she would. I’d make her happier’n all the angels that ever—”

“You don’t mean to blaspheme,” said the clergyman, “You are not yourself. She is brave. She knows no dread. Can’t you be as brave as she is,—for her sake? She is learning that Death is no longer terrible when one is close enough to see the kind eyes behind the mask. I know how black an hour this is for you. But God will help you if only you will carry your grief to Him. When man can endure no more, He sends Peace. If—”

The door of the inner room opened, and a bearded man emerged. He paused on the threshold at sight of Caleb. The Fighter thrust him bodily aside, without ceremony; entered the room the doctor had just quitted and closed the door behind him.

The light burned low. In the centre of the big white bed,—a pathetically tiny figure,—lay Desirée. Her wonderful hair flowed loose over the pillow. The little face, white, pain-drawn, yet smiling joyous welcome from its great eyes, turned eagerly toward her lover. With an effort whose anguish left her lips gray she stretched forth her arms to him.

An inarticulate, sobbing cry that rent his whole body burst from the Fighter. The dear arms closed above his heaving shoulders and his head lay once more on the girl’s breast. Through the hell of his agony stole for the moment that old, weirdly sweet sense of being at last safe from all the noise and battle of the world;—at home. And, as a mother might hush a frightened child, the stricken girl soothed and comforted him; whispering secret love-words of their own; lulling to rest the horror that was consuming him.

And after a time the shock passed, bringing the man’s inborn optimism back with a rush. This girl who spoke so bravely, who even laughed a little in her eagerness to comfort him,—she could not be at death’s door. This local pill-mixer who had pulled so long a face,—he and the parson chap whose business it was to speed earth’s parting guests,—between them they had cooked up a fine alarm. They had scared him,—they and that fool boy who knew nothing about accidents and whose own minor injuries no doubt made him think Desirée must be incurably hurt.

Caleb had seen many men who had been injured in railroad smashups. They had writhed clumsily, emitting raucous screams ’way down in their throats;—or had lain senseless in queer-shaped heaps, from the first. Not one of them had been coherent, calm,—yes, even cheerful,—like this worshipped little sweetheart of his. The first shock was bringing its normal reaction to the Fighter’s brain and nerves. As ever, it was imparting to them a redoubled power to cast off depression.

He raised his head; and, by the dim light, studied Desirée’s face. The brave, beautiful eyes met his with a message of deathless love. The tortured lips were parted in a smile.

All at once he knew he was right. She would get well. The enginery that had made his fortune would not crush out her life. The railroad that had brought him wealth was not to bring him desolation as well. The foreknowledge set his blood to tingling.

“Are you sufferin’ so very much, girl?” he asked.

And she, reading his thoughts as she had always done, smiled again as she answered:

“Not very much, dear heart. Hardly at all, now that you’re here. Oh, it’s good to have you with me again! I was afraid you mightn’t—”

She stopped. He thought he knew why, and made answer:

“Thought I mightn’t come, hey? Why, girl, if you had a smashed finger an’ sent for me to come clear across the world to kiss it an’ make it well, I’d come. An’ you know I would. An’ you’re really better since I got here?”

“Much, much better.”

“I knew it!” he declared, in triumph. “I knew you’d come ’round all right. I had a hunch you would. An’ my hunches don’t ever go wrong. I’ve sent for the best doctors in America. If there’s better doctors in Yurrup I’ll send for those, too. An’, among ’em they’ll have you fit as a fiddle in no time. You’ll get well, for me, darling. You’ll get well! You’ll get well!”

He struck his hand on the bedpost to drive home the prophecy.

“Yes, dear,” she whispered, faint with a new spasm of pain as the jar of his hand’s impact shook the bed.

“Oh!” he laughed, nervously, “I was so scared, girl. So scared! It seemed like the world was tumblin’ about my ears. If I’d come here an’ found—”

He could not go on.

“I know, dear, I know!” she told him, stroking his bristled red hair as she spoke, “It would be terribly lonely for you if—if anything happened to me. You are so strong in some ways. Yet in others you are a child. No one understands you except me. No one else can break through the rough outer-world shell to the big gentle boy that hides inside it. If I were not here with you, no one would ever look for that boy. No one would even suspect he was there. And by and by he would die for lack of companionship. The hard rough armor would go on through life. But the soul,—the boy I love,—would be dead. Oh, you need me, dear! You need me! The poor helpless friendly little boy behind the brutal shell,—the real you,—needs me. He can’t live without me. No one else will love him, or even know he is in his hiding place waiting and longing to be made friends with, I can’t let you go!”

The soft voice broke, despite the gallant spirit’s commands. And the tone went through Conover like white-hot steel.

“Don’t talk so, Dey!” he implored, “Don’t speak like you weren’t goin’ to get well. You are, I tell you!”

“Yes, dear,” she assented once more, petting the big awkward hand that clung to her.

“Of course you are,” he protested valiantly, “It’s crazy of me to a’ thought anything else. An’ I didn’t, really. You’ll be as well as ever you was, in a week or less. I’m havin’ nurses tel’graphed for, too. The best there are. An’,” a veritable inspiration crossing the brain he was racking for further words of encouragement, “An’ I’ve got a present for you. A dandy one. Guess what it is.”

“Flowers?” she asked, forcing an interest into her query.

“Flowers!” he echoed in fine scorn, “Somethin’ nicer’n all the flowers that ever happened! See!”

He fished from his waistcoat pocket a little box wrapped with tissue paper that was none the cleaner for a week’s companionship with tobacco-dust and lead pencils.

“Oh, let me open it!” she commanded, with a vestige of her old sweet imperiousness. “That’s the best part of a present.”

She undid the grimy paper, opened the box and gazed in childish delight at the gorgeous diamond in its platinum setting.

“I knew you’d like it,” he chuckled, “Han’somest ring in New York. From the best store there, too. See the name on the box-cover. How’s that for an engagement ring?”

“It’s beautiful! Beautiful!” she murmured.

She slipped it on her third finger, whence it hung heavy and ridiculously loose.

“Maybe it’s a little too large,” he confessed, “But we’ll have that fixed easily enough. I didn’t want to ask your size beforehand for fear you might suspect somethin’. So I had to guess at it.”

She praised the diamond’s beauties until even Conover was content. Then she lay back among the pillows and fought movelessly for endurance. Her waning strength, keyed up to its highest pitch for Caleb’s sake, was deserting her. To hide her weakness she began playing with the ring; slipping it from finger to finger until at length the circlet hung loose from her thumb. Caleb watched her slender hand toying with the gift.

“It’ll be a mighty short time, now,” said he, “before we fit on a plain gold ring above that! Hey?”

At his words the girl, to his dismay, broke into a passion of tears.

“There! There!” he consoled, passing his arms about the frail tormented body, “Why, what is it, sweetheart? Too much excitement after your accident? I ought to a’ had better sense than to keep you talkin’ like this. Try an’ get some sleep. An’ when you wake up you’ll feel better. Lots better. Don’t cry! It breaks me all up to have you do it. Don’t, precious!”

“I—I love you so,” panted the girl, “There’s just you in all the world, Caleb! You’ll stay close by me always, won’t you? Just as long as I live?”

“You bet I will!” he declared, “An’ I’ll never let you out of my sight. I ain’t more’n half myself when you’re away. I need you worse’n you can ever need me, Dey. You’re just the heart of me.”

“Don’t take your arms away,” she begged, “They are so strong, so safe. Listen, dear:—I want you to pick me up,—I’m not too heavy, am I?—Pick me up and carry me. I want to be close to you,—closer than I ever was before. You are so big,—so powerful. And—I feel so weak. I’m a little restless; that’s all,” she added hastily, “And it will quiet me to be held.”

He gathered her gently to his breast. Her arms clasped his neck; her face was buried in his shoulder to stifle the cry of agony evoked by the movement of lifting. Then, carrying her closely to his heart, Conover began to pace the room, bearing the girl as easily and as lightly as though she were a baby.

The tenderness of his caress now held no roughness. The motion and the reliance on his perfect strength quieted her suffering and gave her the sense of utter peace she had known when she fell asleep in his arms on the Adirondack hilltop.

“I am very happy!” she sighed, “Do I tire you?”

“Not much you don’t, you little bit of a girl!” he laughed, “I could carry you always. An’ I’m goin’ to. Right close in my heart. Say, there was a man out in the other room when I came. A minister. He said a queer thing. Somethin’ ’bout bein’ carried on the ‘strong arm of Christ.’”

“I think I know what he meant,” said Desirée, softly.

“H’m! Sometime when you’re better I’ll get you to explain it to me. I’d rather talk ’bout you, just now. D’you remember that time I sat by the fire an’ held you like this while you went to sleep?”

“Do I remember?” she answered, “There has never been one hour I’ve forgotten it. It made me feel so safe from harm; so sure, so happy. Perhaps,—yes, I’m sure—that’s the way one must feel when—”

“Are you thinkin’ ’bout what that preacher said?” asked Caleb, miserably, “Don’t, girl! It’ll be years and years before you ever need to think ’bout those things. A month from now we’ll both laugh over the scare I had.... Your eyes get wonderfuller all the time, Dey. I never knew quite how lovely they were till now. There’s a light in ’em like they was lookin’ at somethin’ a common chap like me couldn’t see.”

She drew his head down and their lips met in a long kiss. As he raised his face he half-fancied she whispered some word; but he could not catch its purport.

He resumed his pacing to and fro. After a time Desirée’s lashes drooped. Her quick breathing grew slow and regular.

“I didn’t think—anyone could—be so—happy,” she murmured, drowsily. “It’s sweet to—to rest—in your arms.”

He bent to kiss her on the forehead. The brow that had been so hot to his first touch was cool and moist.

“You’re better already!” he cried in delight. “Say, sweetheart, I got an idea. To-morrow let’s get that preacher chap to marry us. Shan’t we? Then as soon as you get well enough, we’ll go somewhere for the dandiest weddin’ trip on record. To Yurrup, if you like. Or back to the Antlers. Or anywhere you say. An’ I’ll buy you the prettiest clo’es in all Noo York; an’ you can get a whole cartload of joolry, if you like. I’d pay ev’ry cent I got in the world to keep that wonderful, happy light in those big eyes of yours. Will you marry me to-morrow, girl?”

Desirée did not answer. She was asleep. On tiptoe, Caleb crossed to the bed. He laid her down upon it, smoothing the hot tumbled pillows with his unaccustomed hand. Then he tiptoed with ponderous softness out of the room and closed the door silently behind him.

“Well!” he exclaimed gleefully, addressing Jack and the doctor who were consulting at the far end of the next room. “Guess I had my fright for nothin’! She’ll get on fine. She’s sound asleep, an’ her forehead’s—”

“It is the morphia I gave her to deaden the pain,” said the doctor. “If she had not been suffering so terribly it would have taken effect before.”

“Morphia? Sufferin’?” repeated Caleb. “Why, she’s hardly sufferin’ at all. Told me so, herself. Look here!” he went on, bullyingly, as he advanced on the physician, “D’ye mean to say there’s a chance she won’t get well?”

“There is no earthly power,” retorted the doctor, nettled at the domineering tone, “that can keep her alive ten hours longer.”

“You lie! Don’t I know—?”

“I cannot thrash you in the anteroom of death,” answered the doctor, “and I take your sorrow into consideration. But what I just said is true. Miss Shevlin has sustained internal injuries which cannot but prove fatal. Nothing but her yearning to see you again has kept her alive as long as this. It is best to be frank.”

Caleb was eyeing him stupidly. At last he turned to Jack.

“Did you send those tel’grams?” he asked; and his voice was dead.

“Yes, sir,” replied Hawarden. “I sent them, but—”

“But I told him it was useless,” put in the doctor. “There is not a fighting chance. She will not come out of this morphia stupor. The moisture on her forehead is what you laymen would call the ‘death-sweat.’ She—”

“You lie!” broke forth Caleb, beside himself. “You may fool women and children by your damn profess’nal airs, but it don’t go down with me. I’ve seen folks die. An’ they ain’t sane an’ cheerful an’ bright like Dey Shevlin was just now. You quacks make a livin’ by throwin’ med’cines you don’t half understand into systems you don’t understand at all. As long’ it’s a triflin’ case of mumps or headache, you look all-fired wise an’ write out p’scriptions in a furren language to hide your ignor’nce. But when anything’s reely the matter you’re as helpless as a drunken longshoreman. If the patient dies from your blunders an’ from the dope you throw hap-hazard into him, he ‘hadn’t a chance from the start.’ If he gets well in spite of you, it’s your almighty skill that ‘pulled him through.’ When a feller gets colic an’ you call it appendicitis, what do you do? You don’t rest till you get a chance to stick your knives into him. If he gets well, it’s a ‘mir’cle of modern surgery.’ If he croaks, the ‘op’ration was a success,’—only the patient got peevish an’ died. There never yet was an appendicitis case where the quack in charge didn’t say there’ a been ‘no hope if the op’ration had been delayed another two hours.’ Oh, you’re a fine lot of fakers an’ gold-brick con men, you doctors! An’ now you say my little girl’s dyin’! God damn your soul, I tell you again you lie!”

The doctor picked up his black bag without replying and moved toward the outer door.

“Where you goin’?” demanded Caleb.

“I’m going home,” was the stiff retort. “I drop this case. I do not care to be associated longer with a wild beast like—”

The words were choked in his mouth. At a spring, Conover had cleared the space between them, had caught the physician by the throat and was shaking him back and forth with jerks that threatened to snap the victim’s spine. Then he hurled him to the centre of the room and towered over him, ablaze with fury.

“Yes, I’m a wild beast, all right!” he snarled. “An’ I’m li’ble to become a hom’cidal one at that. ‘Drop the case,’ would you? Sneak out an’ leave that poor kid in there to lose what chance she might have from your help? Well, Mr. Doctor, if you take one step out into that hall, the next step you take’ll be in hell. What’s more, you’ll go back to that sick room, right now; an’ you’ll work over Miss Shevlin like you never worked before. If I catch you neglectin’ her or tryin’ to get away,—by the Eternal, I’ll tear you in half with my bare hands! Now go! Go in there!”

The doctor, his rage tempered by the memory of the iron fingers on his windpipe, glared at the madman in angry irresolution. Caleb’s muscles tightened ominously. The physician recoiled a step in most unprofessional haste.

“You are a dangerous maniac!” he said somewhat unsteadily, “and you shall go to prison for this outrageous assault. For the present, I shall remain on the case. Not because of your threats, but from common humanity toward—”

“Toward yourself,” finished Caleb, satisfied that he had won his point. “An’ just to make sure, I’ll lock the outer door of this suite an’ pocket the key. Now go back to your patient!”

Outside, there was glaring, heartless sunshine. In the sick room stood Caleb and Jack, one on either side of the bed over which the doctor was bending. With closed eyes, Desirée Shevlin rested where Conover had laid her. For hours she had lain thus.

“I can do no more,” pronounced the doctor, rising and meeting Caleb’s glazed eye. “The end may come now at any moment.”

The Fighter, his every faculty drowned in the horrible egotism of grief, made no answer.

“If only there were someone to pray!” muttered Jack, battling to keep back the tears. “I wish Mr. Grant was—”

“Pray?” echoed Caleb, rousing himself and clutching at the faint hope. “It can’t do any harm. Pray, man! Pray!”

“I—I can’t!” babbled the boy. “I don’t know how. I never prayed in my life. I—”

“Try it!” groaned Caleb. “Try it, I say! You may have beginner’s luck!”

“No use!” interposed the doctor. “It’s over.”

As he spoke, Desirée stirred ever so slightly. Her closed eyes opened. She seemed to settle lower in the bed. Then she lay very still.

With a sobbing cry Jack Hawarden rushed from the room. Conover stood, dumb, petrified, staring wildly down into the unseeing, all-seeing eyes.