The House of Mystery | Page 2

the
bridge of her nose--a little observation charming to Blake, the man, but
a guide to Blake, the physician. She had the look, Dr. Blake told
himself, which old-fashioned country nurses of the herb-doctor school
refer to as "called." He knew that, in about one case out of three, that
look does in fact amount to a real "call"--the outward expression of an
obscure disease.
"Her heart?" queried Blake, the physician. The transparent, porcelain
quality of her skin would indicate that. But he found, as he watched, no
nervous twitching, no look as of an incipient sack under her eyes; nor
did the transparent quality seem waxy. There was, too, a certain
pinkness in the porcelain which showed that her blood ran red and pure.
Then Mr. Blake and Dr. Blake re-fused into one psychology and
decided that her appearance of delicacy was subtly psychological. It
haunted him with an irritating effect of familiarity--as of a symptom
which he ought to recognize. In all ways was it intertwined with the
expression of her mouth. She had never smiled enough; therein lay all
the trouble. She presented a very pretty problem to his imagination.
Here she was, still so very young that little was written on her face, yet
the little, something unusual, baffling. The mouth, too tightly set, too
drooping--that expressed it all. To educate such a one in the ways of
innocent frivolity!
When the porter's "last call for luncheon" brought that flutter of
satisfaction by which a bored parlor-car welcomes even such a trivial
diversion as food, Dr. Blake waited a fair interval for her toilet
preparations, and followed toward the dining-car. He smiled a little at
himself as he realized that he was craftily scheming to find a seat, if not
opposite her, at least within seeing distance. On a long and lonely
day-journey, he told himself, travelers are like invalids--the smallest
incident rolls up into a mountain of adventure. Here he was, playing for
sight of an interesting girl, as another traveler timed the train-speed by
the mile-posts, or counted the telegraph poles along the way.
So he came out suddenly into the Pullman car ahead--and almost

stumbled over the nucleus of his meditations. She was half-kneeling
beside a seat, clasping in her arms the figure of a little, old woman. He
hesitated, stock still. The blonde girl shifted her position as though to
take better hold of her burden, and glanced backward with a look of
appeal. The doctor came forward on that; and his sight caught the face
of the old woman. Her eyes were closed, her head had dropped to one
side and lay supine upon the girl's shoulder. It appeared to be a plain
case of faint.
[Illustration: ANNETTE]
"I am a physician," he said simply, "Get the porter, will you?" Without
an instant's question or hesitation, the girl permitted him to relieve her,
and turned to the front of the car. Other women and one fussy, noisy
man were coming up now. Dr. Blake waved them aside. "We need air
most of all--open that window, will you?" The girl was back with the
porter. "Is the compartment occupied? Then open it. We must put her
on her back." The porter fumbled for his keys. Dr. Blake gathered up
the little old woman in his arms, and spoke over his shoulder to the
blonde girl:
"You will come with us?" She nodded. Somehow, he felt that he would
have picked her from the whole car to assist in this emergency. She was
like one of those born trained nurses who ask no questions, need no
special directions, and are as reliable as one's instruments.
The old woman was stirring by the time he laid her out on the sofa of
the compartment. He wet a towel in the pitcher at the washstand, wrung
it out, pressed it on her forehead. It needed no more than that to bring
her round.
"Only a faint," said Dr. Blake; "the day's hot and she's not accustomed
to train travel, I suppose. Is she--does she belong to your party?"
The girl spoke for the first time in his hearing. Even before he seized
the meaning of her speech, he noted with a thrill the manner of it. Such
a physique as this should go with the high, silvery tone of a flute; so
one always imagines it. This girl spoke in the voice of a violin--soft,

deep, deliciously resonant. In his mind flashed a picture for which he
was a long time accounting--last winter's ballet of the New York
Hippodrome. Afterward, he found the key to that train of thought. It,
had been a ballet of light, shimmering colors, until suddenly a troop of
birds in royal purple had slashed their way down the center of the stage.