Old Mr. Wiley | Page 2

its small restless occupant she
threw what appeared to Miss Beaver a distasteful glance, ignoring the
nurse entirely although she had not met her previously and must have
known that the strange young woman was the new night nurse.
"Do come to bed, Frank," she urged crossly, placing a proprietary hand
on her husband's coat sleeve. "It won't do you any good to moon
around in here and it might disturb Francis."
Miss Beaver stood by her patient's bed, her clear gray eyes full upon
young Mrs. Wiley. The nurse experienced a kind of disgust, together
with one of those uncomfortable intuitions upon the reliability of which
Doctor Parris was always depending. She knew, all at once, that Mrs.
Wiley was that strange type of modern woman which makes a cult of
personal beauty, taking wifehood lightly and submitting to maternity as
infrequently as possible.
"I suppose you're right, Florry," the father conceded, with a last
solicitous look at the exhausted child. "Miss Beaver...?"
The nurse nodded, her lips a tight red line.

"It would be better for the patient if the room were quiet and darkened,"
she said with decision.
* * * * *
When the door had closed behind the pair, Miss Beaver busied herself
making the child more comfortable for the night. She smoothed out the
cool linen sheets, drawing them taut under the wasted little body. She
bathed the hot face with water and alcohol. To all her ministrations the
child submitted in a kind of lethargy, speaking no word, making no
sign that he had noticed a different attendant. When she had quite
finished, he breathed a long sigh of relaxation; his quivering, weak
little body went suddenly limp, and Miss Beaver had a good scare as
she bent over him, trying to bring back that weary and reluctant spirit to
its exhausted mortal domicile.
It was by then nearly half past seven. The child lay supine;
heavy-lidded eyes half opened upon this tormentress who had
somehow succeeded in calling him back into the dimly lighted room
from the shadows of Lethe's alluring banks. Miss Beaver, kneeling
beside young Frank's bed, talked tenderly to him in a soft monotone.
She made all manner of gratuitous promises, if only Frank would try
like a good boy to get well. She told him firmly that he could, if he
wanted to. She made her suggestions with gently persuasive voice,
coloring all she said with the warmth of a heart peculiarly open to the
unknown needs of the listless child. To those unknown needs she
opened wide her spirit, crying within for enlightenment and help.
While she was thus occupied, she became aware of that sensation of
being watched that is so startling when one considers oneself alone.
Without rising, she turned her face quickly from the pillow of young
Frank and looked across the bed. A member of the household about
whom Doctor Parris had neglected to tell her was standing there, one
finger on his lips which, though firm, wore a reassuring smile that
immediately conveyed his warm friendliness. He was a well preserved
elderly gentleman of aristocratic mien, clad in a bright blue garment of
odd cut, his neck wound about with spotlessly white linen in lieu of a
starched collar. His high nose, raised cheek-bones, flashing black eyes

and olive skin contrasted in lively fashion with a heavy mane of white
hair. His eyes as well as his lips conveyed a kindliness which Miss
Beaver's answering smile reciprocated.
Tapping his lips again with admonitory forefinger, the old gentleman
now produced, with a broad smile, something from beneath his right
arm. Leaning down, he set this carefully beside the listless child. As he
put it down, it gave a whining little cry.
Young Frank's eyes widened incredulously. Miss Beaver kept him
under intent regard as he turned his dark head on the pillow to see what
it was that was sitting on the bed.
"Oh!" he cried in a kind of rapture and put one thin white hand outside
the covers to touch the small creature that now stood wagging a brief
tail in friendly fashion. "Is it mine?"
The child looked up at the old gentleman who once more, with serious
mien and a significant movement of his head toward the door, gestured
for silence. The boy's eyes blinked once or twice; then with a weak but
ecstatic smile he laid a pale hand upon the furry coat of the little dog
that began to bounce about, licking the hand that caressed it.
Miss Beaver told herself that the old gentleman had found a way to lay
hold on young Frank's reluctant spirit. She watched color creep into the
boy's face as he cuddled the little dog blissfully, and she drew a deep
breath of