In an incredibly short time Denham
brought back not only Dr. Dennis, whom he had caught
just setting out for a stolen game of whist with Mr.
Upjohn, during the absence of that gentleman’s
wife at prayer-meeting, but also Soeur Angelique,
whose mere presence in a sick-room was more than half
the cure. And then he sat in the dark, disordered
room below, impatiently enough, anxiously waiting
for news from Phebe. The time seemed to him interminable
before at last the door opened, and Gerald entered,
bearing a lamp. The vivid light, flung so full
upon her, showed traces of passionate weeping; and
her white dress all scorched and burned and hopelessly
ruined, with the rich lace hanging in shreds from the
sleeves, made her a startling contrast indeed to the
usually calm, self-possessed, perfectly-dressed Gerald
Vernor.
Denham sprang forward to take the
heavy lamp from her. “How is she, please?”
Gerald started. “What, you here?”
“Did you think I could leave till I knew?”
“Oh, of course not, I had forgotten you.
I was only thinking of Phebe.”
“But how is she?”
“Better. She is burned
about the shoulders and a little on the arms, but
not seriously, and nothing that will disfigure.
It is so fortunate. The doctor is still with
her, but she is much easier now, and there is nothing
to fear.”
“Ah, what a relief! It
seemed as if I should never hear. She is really
in no danger then?”
“None.”
“Thank God! As you came in you looked so
distressed I feared
“When it was all over and there
was nothing to cry about, I cried,” interrupted
Gerald. “Women are always fools. I’ll
except Mrs. Whittridge, however. She has been
the greatest comfort to Phebe.”
“It is Soeur Angélique’s
characteristic privilege always to be a comfort, I
believe,” answered Denham, recovering his light-heartedness
in a flash. “Might I inquire if you have
any especial object with this lamp? Shall I do
any thing particularly with it?”
“Let it down, please anywhere.
I remembered the room was dark, and ran down to put
it to rights before Mrs. Lane should comeback.
Her orderly soul would have a spasm if she came upon
it suddenly like this.”
“It was well I had no light,”
said Denham, looking around him. “It would
have frightened even me. Shan’t I call some
one?”
“It’s the ridiculous fashion
of the house to suppose it never needs servants at
this hour. There’s not one within reach.”
“You must let me help you then. Is this
the table-cover?”
“Thanks. I am afraid the
fire has done for it, but we can’t help that.
Pull it a little farther to your side, please.
Farther still. That’s too far. So.
That’s right. Now the lamp here. Now
the books. Cover up the holes with them.”
“Ah, Miss Lydia’s pet
cup! and her little favorite statuette!”
“Hideous things! I’m glad they’re
smashed.”
“Will you equally enjoy imparting to her the
fact of their loss?”
“Somebody else may do that. I had my share
telling her about Phebe.”
“I suppose she was terribly shocked, poor old
soul. I don’t wonder.”
“She had an instant attack of
hysterics, and I did wonder,” rejoined
Gerald, tartly. “But as I told you, women
are always fools, and nervous women the worst ones,
I haven’t any patience with them. I was
vexed enough with her for keeping me from Phebe.
I don’t believe she was ever hurried so out
of an attack before.”
“I’m afraid there’s
need of a broom or something here, Miss Vernor.
This vase is in a thousand pieces.”
Gerald seized the hearth-brush and was on her knees
by him in a moment.
“The lamp, please, Mr. Halloway. Set it
on the floor an instant.”
Denham moved it as desired, and stood
looking down at her as she began deftly brushing up
the scattered bits.
“Miss Vernor!” he suddenly
exclaimed in a shocked voice. The bright light,
falling broadly across her hands, showed two great
angry-red blotches just above one of the delicate
wrists. He stooped and laid masterful hold of
the long handle of the brush.
“Well?” she said, stopping
perforce and looking up in surprise. “What
is it?”
“Your arm you are burned, badly burned.”
Gerald made a little sound of contempt for all reply.
“It should be dressed at once. How it must
pain you!”
Gerald looked at her arm reflectively.
“I haven’t had time to feel,” she
said, vainly trying to pull her sleeve over it.
“It will make an ugly scar, won’t it?
I shall have to abandon elbow sleeves. Now please
let go the brush.”
“Miss Vernor, why should you
be so cruel to yourself? Do go up to the doctor
at once!”
“And take him away from Phebe?
I will not. It won’t hurt any more now
than it has done already. I must ask you to let
me have the brush, Mr. Halloway. I am losing
time.”
Halloway relinquished it without speaking,
and went quietly out of the room, and Gerald unconcernedly
resumed her work, scarcely pausing to wonder where
he had gone or what he intended. He returned just
as she had finished, and lifting the lamp back to
the table, called to her: “Will you come
here, please?”
“What in the world have you
there?” she inquired, coming up to him in sheer
curiosity.
“Soap. I found the way
to the kitchen, you see. I had to bring the water
in this tin thing. I didn’t know where to
look for a cup.”
“Pray what is it for?”
“For you. Soap is good
for burns. Will you let me take your hand, please?”
Gerald put the wounded member behind
her. “Thank you. I neither require
nor desire assistance.”
“Pardon me, you do require it,
and if you refuse to see the doctor
“Is that any reason why I should
resort to you and kitchen soap?”
“I grant it is a very homely
remedy, Miss Vernor, but it is an excellent one and
the only one I know.”
“I daresay. It is one more than I know
of.”
“You will not try it?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you are afraid of the pain attending
the dressing?”
It was a masterly stroke. Gerald
gave him one look of intense scorn, almost of anger,
and immediately reached out her hand. “I
am afraid of nothing not even of your lack
of skill.”
Denham took her hand without further
ceremony, and holding it firmly, pushed back the hanging
lace from her arm and began rubbing the soap over
the burns, without so much as a word of pity for the
pain he knew he was giving her. She winced involuntarily
at the first touch, but set her teeth tightly lest
she should cry out. It hurt her cruelly.
“I was not aware before that the custody of
souls extended to that of the temples they inhabit,”
she said, when she could command herself sufficiently
to assume a supreme indifference of tone. “You
believe in purely household remedies, I see.”
“I believe always in doing what
I can with what means I have. One moment more,
please. I am not quite through.”
Gerald held out her hand again.
“Perhaps you had better try sandstone on it
this time, or a little burning oil.”
Halloway did not answer, but hastily
tearing his handkerchief into strips, bound the arm
as closely as he could. “There,” he
said, surveying the bandages critically, and inwardly
well pleased with his success; “at least that
will do till you can see the doctor.”
“Are you sure you are quite
through now?” asked Gerald, in mock submission.
“You don’t think it necessary to put the
arm in a splint, or to fasten weights to it, or to
amputate the first joint of the thumb?”
“I am sorry to say that is all
I know how to do for you, Miss Vernor.”
“Then I will go back to Miss
Lydia. By the way, would you recommend soap also
for hysterics?”
“Applied with a close bandage
over the mouth? Certainly, it will be both effectual
and immediate.”
“Thank you. Good-night.”
“Will you not shake hands with me?”
Gerald turned as she was moving off
and held out her hand, more as a queen might have
extended it in motion of dismissal than as friend to
friend. Denham took it between both his.
“Before you go, I want to thank you in the name
of all Miss Phebe’s friends,” he said,
earnestly. “You have saved her life to-night,
and at the risk of your own.”
“The table-cloth was her savior,
not I,” returned Gerald, lightly, but with a
softened voice. “And anyway, is it not quite
thanks enough only to know that Phebe is safe?
Now good-night in earnest.”