Twice Merrick had glanced up anxiously into the eyes of the anaesthetist—it was no small matter to be conducting ether into those pummelled lungs—but, apparently satisfied with what he read there, applied himself with renewed concentration to his task.
It was a terrific strain, and the little group in the operating room was strangely silent. By common consent it was understood that a moving drama was being enacted here—a tragedy, perhaps. Any breath might be her last. That would depend upon the skill of the surgeon. Life and death here were to be determined by the promptness and accuracy of decisions in the removal of the clots. Too deep meant death; not deep enough meant blindness for life!
When the operation was all but finished, Donelli inquired, with an entreating look and a hand outstretched for the needle, if he might not do the scalp stitches; but Merrick shook his head.
The little procession crowded through the door. Bobby walked shakily into the adjacent dressing room; sat down on a white enamelled stool, his shoulders slumped; and contemplated his hands … Her blood! … Donelli and a nurse helped him off with his rubber gloves and out of his smock. The impulsive Italian himself insisted on mopping his guest’s face with a cold towel, eager to show his sympathy. It had been the most stirring event of his experience in a vocation singularly exposed to dramatic situations.
They tried, a little later, to persuade Merrick to eat something, but his dinner consisted of a stiff drink of brandy which he gulped greedily as a toper. It was useless to argue with him. He was determined to go at once to his patient’s bedside and wait results.
“But—there’s nothing you can do,” expostulated Ardmore. “It will be hours before you can determine anything more than you know now, unless—of course …”
“Exactly!” muttered Merrick. “It’s the unless that concerns me! … That—and the threat of a quick pneumonia.”
Donelli and Ardmore went to dinner. As they parted at the hospital gate, the Italian said, “It’s too much to hope for. Our young friend will be deeply grieved. But—it was a masterful piece of work!”
Her room was in semidarkness, but Merrick’s eyes, once they were accustomed to the gloom, caressed the loveliness of her face. He had not bandaged her eyes. They were closed; and the long black lashes—incredibly long lashes—made heavy shadows on her darkly flushed cheeks. Her breathing was regular, quiet—almost too quiet, at times, and he would rise from his chair by the window and move anxiously toward the bed, his nerves keyed to the breaking point.
Mostly he sat resting his elbows on his knees with his chin in his hands, staring at her face, occasionally rousing when a longer breath, exhaled shudderingly, would bring him to her side, his stethoscope intent.
About midnight, he took a turn up and down in the corridor, and upon reentering the room, whispered into Julie Craig’s ear:
“Is her clothing in that closet?”
“Yes, doctor … Can I help you?”
He shook his head, stepped to the wardrobe, and after some search brought out a soiled and torn blue gown, fumbled at the neck of it, and, having found what he sought, restored the garment to the closet and closed the door.
Julie Craig watched him interestedly as he sat toying with the bit of jewellery he had abstracted from his patient’s clothing. Doubtless it was one of his gifts to her. There was some delicious secret connected with it. She wished she knew.
After a while, he rose, and, bending over her, whispered:
“You may go out and take a bit of exercise. I shall call you if you are needed.”
Dawn was breaking. The little clock ticked energetically on the bureau. Birds twittered sleepily, outside the window. Bells tolled matins.
There was a weary sigh from the bed. Julie Craig bent over it, solicitously.
And then, in that dear voice, curiously like a muted cello, between hysterical little sobs, Bobby Merrick’s patient murmured:
“Oh—Blessed God—I can see!”
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
