Читать книгу The Triumph of Virginia Dale - John MacCunn Francis - Страница 9

Table of Contents

It was past one o’clock when Virginia left the colored children at the Orphans’ Home. The purchase of the cones had detained them much longer than she had anticipated. Now, rid of her guests, she remembered her meeting with her father. Appreciating with dismay how the minutes had flown, she considered it advisable to return home as soon as practicable that rough water might be lubricated.

“Hurry, Ike,” she told the chauffeur.

Now, Ike needed little encouragement in this matter. It delighted him exceedingly to find excuse to unloose the surplus power of the fast machine. Tantalizing qualms which only Serena’s cooking could quiet likewise beset him. It was his custom to lunch early and abundantly.

Ike hurried. In a moment the car was rushing along one of South Ridgefield’s residential streets at a high rate of speed. Virginia’s thoughts rehearsed the events of the morning. Those of the chauffeur anticipated his delayed repast.

They approached a corner. The hoarse honk of a horn sounded from the intersecting street. At the crossing came an instantaneous perception of a man approaching at high speed upon a motorcycle and trying to dodge. The sickening sensation of impending peril held the girl as the emergency brake squealed. A heavy shock at the back of the automobile seemed to lift it. Virginia screamed. The motorcycle rider half dove, half tumbled out from the back of the big car and crumpled an inert and senseless heap in the street.

The Dale car stopped almost at the instant of the shock. Seeming to fall from his seat, Ike ran back and stared for a second at the upset motorcycle and then hurried to the recumbent figure.

A bystander rushed out and joined the chauffeur, crying, “Is he dead?”

Ike, filled with personal woes, took no heed of the inquiry. “Run squa’e into me. Smack bang. Done knock er big dent in ma caah,” he protested.

Luckily the bystander was a man of action rather than words. He gave attention to the stricken one. “Get the doctor, over there,” he commanded sharply, pointing to a white house nearby.

Ike disappeared on the run.

For seconds which seemed hours, Virginia, held by fright, could not move. Her eyes, wide with horror, stared back at the motionless motorcyclist. His flattened figure resembled a bundle of old clothes dropped carelessly in the roadway. Certain that the man was dead, the terrible thought came to the girl that she was responsible for it. She could hear herself saying, “Hurry, Ike.” It made her frantic, she could not sit still and yet she wondered if she had the strength to move. In a moment, she found herself standing. Hardly knowing what she did, she climbed from the car and moved slowly towards the figure lying in the dust. She watched it fearfully, as if it might suddenly leap at her. Now she saw the face. How dreadfully white it was. Surely he was dead. The pity of this great fellow lying helpless in the street moved her strangely. The pathos of his weakness wrung her heart.

The bystander removed his coat intending to make a pillow of it. Guessing his purpose, Virginia hastened to the car and brought back a cushion.

“Thank you, that will be better,” he told her. Taking the cushion, he held it irresolutely as though planning how best to use it.

“May I help?” To Virginia it seemed that the words came of their own accord. She doubted if she had the strength to do anything.

“If you would, please? When I lift his head, will you push the cushion under?”

The girl dropped upon her knees in the dust of the roadway. It brought her face very near to that of the unconscious man. She noticed that he was young, not much older than herself. When the cushion was placed it lifted his head into an awkward position. Readjusting the cushion, Virginia pushed it too far. The motorcyclist’s head slid over and rested against her knee. For an instant she hesitated and then, making a pillow of her lap, she very gently lifted his head into it.

“That’s better. That’s the stuff,” approved the bystander. Noticing her pallor, he added, “If you can do it.”

“I–I–I will be all right,” she hesitatingly reassured him. Yet, at the moment, she was not at all sure of herself. Was she not holding the head of a dead youth in her lap? It had shifted and a rivulet of blood oozed from a small wound in the forehead, formerly hidden. A deathly sickness swept the girl. But even as it seized her came a determination to fight her feelings and conquer them. She would not faint.

The motorcyclist groaned. Virginia almost dropped his head in alarm. He wasn’t dead, but certainly that melancholy sound marked the passing of his soul. Other groans followed of such grievous quality that she was sure each one was his last.

“He’s coming around, I believe,” declared the bystander.

The words reawakened hope in Virginia’s breast. “Isn’t he dead?” she murmured gently.

“No.” The voice came from her lap.

Her startled blue eyes dropped. Two wide open black eyes looked up into them wonderingly for an instant and the lids closed.

“Lord,” moaned the stricken one in unmistakable language.

“He’s praying,” thought Virginia and solemnly bowed her head.

Ike returned, followed soon by a doctor.

“He’s regained consciousness,” the bystander told the medical man.

The physician knelt by the injured youth. He listened to his heart and then started to lift an eyelid when both lids opened so wide that Virginia was enabled to confirm her previous impression that the motorcyclist’s eyes were black. The doctor felt the man’s body and the groans redoubled as he touched one of the legs. The medical man straightened up. “His head seems to be all right. There is a fracture of the right leg and probably a rib or two broken. He is lucky to get off so easy. He will be a mass of bruises, too, I suppose,” he announced. He glanced curiously at the waiting car and then at Virginia and went on, “You are Obadiah Dale’s daughter, are you not?”

As she nodded her assent, he asked, “How did the accident happen?”

“I was to blame,” confessed Virginia, her eyes filling with tears.

“You weren’t driving the car?” he argued sympathetically and when she admitted it, “I don’t see how you can be in fault.”

“I was though, doctor.”

He gave her an enveloping professional glance. The pale face and the flood of tears fighting to break their dams did not escape him. “You are suffering from the shock of the accident. You have been under a strain and are nervous and unstrung.”

Ike considered this an appropriate moment to make public outcry. “Dat man was to blame. Ran smack into me. Lak to punch er hole in de tiah wid ’is haid. Ah gwine look fo’ er punkcher,” he assured the crowd which had assembled.

This attempt to win public favor at the expense of a semi-unconscious opponent filled the doctor with indignation. “You talk like a fool,” he informed the chauffeur. “Without inquiring into the matter I conclude that you are to blame. You help me carry this man under the trees and make him comfortable until I can call an ambulance.”

The snap judgment of the medical man apparently struck Ike as of uncontrovertible accuracy, because he prepared in silence to assist in caring for the injured until Virginia suggested,

“Why not take the man in our machine and get him to the hospital so much quicker?”

“Very good,” agreed the doctor. He eyed Ike sternly. “It’s not a question of speed now. There has been too much of that around here in my opinion.”

“Yas’r,” the chauffeur made illogical response. “Ah ain’ no speeder. Ah is de carefles’ drivah in dis yere town. Safety fust. Dat’s ma motta.”

“Appearances are against you,” the doctor snorted as he prepared a rough splint to protect the leg of the motorcyclist during his removal.

They placed the youth in the Dale car, the doctor holding him in his arms but using a middle seat to support the lower part of the body. Ike pulled down the other seat and, at a sign from the physician, Virginia took it.

As they slowly left the scene of the accident, the girl noticed that the arm of the youth nearest to her swung helplessly at every jolt of the car. Taking the hand in her own, she lifted it into her lap. When she released it, there was a faint movement as if the fingers searched for her own. Knowing him to be suffering, Virginia regrasped his hand and it seemed to her that there came an answering pressure as of appreciation.

Yet woe descended anew upon the girl. The youth could not walk. He could not talk. As she looked at his grotesquely postured body, she became convinced that he was dying. The doctor’s remarks were to cheer her. No one could forecast the results of such an accident. The victim might pass away in the car. He was so young to die, a mere boy. She had killed him. Such thoughts were overwhelming her with fear when they reached the hospital.

In the reception room of the institution, she awaited in dread the outcome of a more thorough examination. As she looked about her, there was nothing in the furnishing of the apartment to distinguish it from thousands of others except the faint, sickening odor of ether which told its own story.

A most attractive young woman in a nurse’s uniform came across the hall from a small office opposite. “Were you with the emergency case Dr. Millard brought?” she asked.

Virginia thought the blonde curls, beneath the cap, very attractive. Also she approved of the hazel eyes. They seemed sympathetic and the overwrought girl longed for that. “I came with a motorcyclist who was hurt. I don’t know the doctor’s name,” she responded.

“If you can give me the information about the patient I will fill out his card.”

Virginia looked at the nurse in astonishment. “Why I don’t know him. I never met him until he ran into our car.”

“A violent introduction,” giggled the nurse, and then, more seriously, “I am glad that it is not your husband.”

“Husband,” gasped Virginia, “on a motorcycle.” Her face reddened in an embarrassment the absurdity of which provoked her.

The nurse broke into a gale of soft laughter. “They come in automobiles, on motorcycles and on foot. Evidently, you don’t care for those on motorcycles.” She considered a moment. “I don’t blame you. He would have so many accidents that you would never know whether you were wife or widow.”

Virginia was uncomfortable. The strain of the most exciting day in her life was telling. The mischievous eyes of the nurse were not helping matters. “I think that I am quite young to be married,” the girl announced with a prim dignity meant to suppress this frivolous person.

That sophisticated young woman shook anew with amusement. “Oh, I don’t know. Have a look at our maternity ward.”

The shot went wide of the mark with Virginia. “Oh,” she exclaimed, with rapturous interest, “I’d love to. That’s where you keep the babies, isn’t it? I adore them.”

“We were speaking of husbands, not babies, you know.” The irrepressible nurse persisted. “They are closely related but not the same thing. That is, unless the wife, as many of them do, insists upon making a baby of her husband.”

Husbands! Babies! Where was this strange conversation leading? Again an annoyed Virginia felt herself flush beneath the amused eyes of this very complacent young person. With a rush, horrible thoughts of the youth upstairs, surely suffering, possibly dying, through her fault, obsessed her. Yet this nurse could look at one with hazel eyes dancing with merriment. The mill owner’s daughter whirled to a window, but, regardless of her efforts, the tears came.

She heard the nurse move. In a moment a hand touched her shoulder and a kind voice whispered, “Dearie, you are all broken up, aren’t you? It’s a shock from the accident. I should have remembered. Let me get you something?”

“No,–no,” protested Virginia, dissolved in tears. “It’s not medicine I need. Oh, if I could only be sure that poor fellow isn’t going to die. I will never have a happy moment the rest of my life if he does.” She raised her tear drenched face. “I wanted to make people happy, not to bring sorrow or trouble to any one. And now,” she sobbed, “I’ve killed a man.”

“Don’t be silly, girlie. You couldn’t kill a flea, let alone a man. Accidents will happen. We get hundreds of such cases every month.”

“You don’t get motorcyclists though. They are injured while riding at fearful speed.”

“Oh yes, we do. I don’t mean to criticise your friend but most motorcyclists are dreadfully reckless.”

“He isn’t my friend. I told you that I don’t know him,” grieved Virginia.

“Why worry so, then? I heard the doctor say that it was not a serious case myself.”

“He was concealing something. Anyway, it is wrong of us to say unkind things about the poor fellow when he has no friends to help him,” Virginia concluded with a note of defiance.

“Have we?” the nurse responded, “I think that I said,–you may remember–that motorcyclists are reckless.”

“But,” sobbed the unhappy girl, “I thought it, too.”

“He wouldn’t care about it, anyway,” argued the nurse soothingly. “Cheer up, he’ll soon be well. I never remember a motorcyclist dying in this hospital. They are either killed outright,” she explained in a matter of fact tone, “or they soon recover. They have so many accidents learning to ride, I suppose, that they get toughened. I don’t mean that they are tough fellows,” she explained hastily, fearful that Virginia might deem the remark unkind. “I mean that one must be young, and strong, and hard, to run one of the things.”

Virginia’s tears had ceased to flow. “I should think that a motorcyclist would have to be–quick–and graceful,” she interrupted, and then ended, “–and very brave,” being, evidently much uplifted by the nurse’s remarks.

“And,” continued the very observant attendant of the sick, “I should think that they would have to be very strong and healthy, perfectly nerveless, and,” she smiled, “not a bit fastidious to ride a motorcycle.”

Virginia’s face bore a look of mild reproof which melted away as she joined in the hearty laugh of the nurse.

“I am going up stairs,” resumed that energetic person cheerfully, “and see your motorcyclist. In a minute, I will be back able to assure you that he is not seriously injured.”

As the girl waited, the quiet of the great building depressed her. To her came the thought that it was a place of weariness, pain, suffering. The hall before her was the highway along which men and women passed on their way to those white bed battle-grounds beyond. Through hours, and days of weariness and suffering the combat dragged its weary length or moved in strenuous actions, short and sharp, towards victory, with the joyous return of the pale and weakened warrior to loved ones, home, friends, and all that makes life worth living, or else–

A door opened above stairs. Something very like a smothered laugh echoed and the soft pad of rubber soles came on the steps.

“He’s all right,” the nurse reassured Virginia, as she reentered the room. “He’s perfectly conscious and the doctor says that he sees no reason why he should not get along nicely.” Her manner became very professional as she went on, “Your motorcyclist has a fractured leg, three fractured ribs, and many bruises.” She shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly, “That’s nothing.”

“Nothing! I think that it is dreadful.” Virginia displayed indications of renewed agitation.

The nurse made haste to comfort her, “Remember, I have seen him. That young man may be brittle but he’ll mend fast.”

“He will suffer so,” worried Virginia.

“No, not after his leg is set. Of course he will be in some pain for a few days but that will soon pass.” The nurse giggled. “Right now he has a bad headache from striking either your car or the street with his head. It must be made of extraordinarily strong material.”

Virginia gave no heed to the concluding sentence. A look of alarm spread over her face. “He struck the car an awful blow. It fairly lifted it. Was that his head?” she gasped.

“Possibly,” admitted the dancing eyed nurse. “His headache is severe. But he’ll be over that in the morning.”

Another matter of anxiety recurred to the girl. “How’s his fever?” she troubled, her eyes big with pity.

“Fever!” Surprise claimed the nurse as its own. “Now what ever put that into your head?”

“I held his hand when we brought him here. It was very hot.”

“Oh, I see,” admitted the nurse with a solemnity of tone which belied her tell-tale orbs. “What a little helper you were. You held the patient’s hand, and, discovering it to be warm, you believed him dead.”

“Wasn’t it strange?” Virginia gravely pursued her own line of thought. “It seemed to me that he wanted me to hold his hand, so I did.”

“Kind girl,” the nurse complimented her, and then, as from a wealth of experience, explained, “I never knew a man who disliked to hold hands. Certainly a motorcyclist would have no compunctions about it. Don’t worry about fever in this case.”

“You are laughing at me again. You love to tease me,” protested Virginia.

“I can’t help it after seeing that motorcyclist.”

“Why should you laugh about him? Poor fellow, he suffers so.”

“Yes, I suppose he does, but his appearance does not draw sympathy. They’ve dressed him up in pink pajamas. He’s a great big fellow and his eyes–”

“Are black,” announced Virginia with great assurance.

“Yes, but how on earth did you know it?”

“He looked up at me,” Virginia confessed soberly.

“Looked up at you? Please tell me when? While you were holding his hand?”

“No.” The girl spoke with great gentleness, as if in a dream she reënacted the scene she described. “His head was lying in my lap and suddenly he opened his eyes and looked up at me for a moment–and closed them.”

The nurse choked with suppressed laughter. “I thought,” she rippled, “that it was a collision of vehicles, not of hearts.”

“How very silly,” thought Virginia, and regarding the nurse coldly, she said aloud, “I’ll go now. I am sorry to have been so much trouble to you.”

Unmoved by the change in the mood of the visitor, the nurse accompanied her to the door. “You’ll be coming back to see your patient?” she suggested.

“I suppose I should,” Virginia mused. Her coolness towards the nurse melted. “It would be dreadfully embarrassing to visit a strange man.”

“I can help you. I go back to ward duty tomorrow and will have charge of the surgical cases. I’ll know him by the time you call.”

“That will be fine. I’ll bring him something to eat.” A further courtesy occurred to Virginia. “Would you let him know, please, that I waited to be sure that he was as comfortable as possible?”

“That has been done,” the nurse told her. “When I was up stairs I explained to him that you were waiting, in almost your very words.”

The curiosity of her sex beset the mill owner’s daughter. “Did he say anything about it?” she questioned.

Great merriment, promptly subdued, shook the nurse. “I should hardly call it ‘anything.’ Of course, I could not question him in his condition. I caught two words. Perhaps I misunderstood them.”

“What were they?”

“He said”–again the nurse was shaken by concealed amusement–“something which sounded to me like”–she hesitated to regain control of her feelings–“Some chicken.”

“Poor fellow,” sympathized compassionate Virginia. “He is hungry. Serena fries chicken deliciously, and he shall have some of it.” As she hurried away, she wondered what it was that had amused the nurse so much that she could not overcome a final outburst.