View PDF - Brown Library

230 Leda and the Swan
tastic sums in addition seemed to be traced
on the inner lids; she could see, with shut
eyes, nothing but black figures on a yellowish
background. Presently she looked
at the doctor again. "If you can possibly
get Windisch to come—I think I can manage
it. Provided, that is, his fee is what you
call nominal. I couldn't pay Gillenton
prices—well, no matter what happened."
" Perhaps I can manage it. I'll go and
see Melcher myself. And—if you could
get a little rest while he sleeps. For he
will sleep now—I've seen to that. You're
a sensible woman: lie down and relax a
little, if you can't do more." He shook
hands with her, and went out.
The rest of the day dragged on as best
it could for Mrs. Farrant. She sat with
Leo while the nurse rested; she withdrew
patiently when the nurse told her to.
There were a few practical things that she
could do: fetching and carrying, and sterilizing
absurd little objects. All inanimate
objects seemed absurd to her; though,
inasmuch as Leo needed them in mysterious
ways, they were sacred. When there
were not practical things to do, she lay
helplessly on her sofa, shut her eyes, and
contemplated the black figures on the yellow
background. She would almost have
sent for Showalter, if she hadn't seen, in a
morning paper, that he had sailed for Europe.
Towards evening the doctor came
again—another visit to write down on her
calendar. He was softly jubilant. He
had told Melcher all about the case; Melcher
had arranged it for him; Windisch
would come in the morning. The fee, he
hoped, would be as small as—Farrant not
being of the medical profession—could
humanly be expected. She could not but
see, across her bitter anxiety, that the doctor
was elated at the undreamed-of chance
of consulting with Windisch. He might
have waited years for such a coincidence:
Windisch's presence, and a case precisely
in Windisch's line. To such uses had Leo
Farrant come! "He'll sleep now," the
doctor had said again, as he left. "The
afternoon has worn him out. You must
remember, Mrs. Farrant," he went on,
"that the pain, though it's bad when it
comes, isn't constant. Miss Dall will be
there, in any case. So I think I'll prescribe
for you, now." He held his hypodermic
syringe lightly between his fingers.
" Oh, no !" she protested. "If she wanted
me and I shouldn't wake !"
" She'll wake you fast enough if she does
want you. Only an eighth of a grain—
so that you'll be fresh for Windisch in the
morning. He may want to ask you a lot
of questions." Then, as she shook her
head: "My dear lady, I know what I'm
about. I know just the symptoms for
which this stuff is good and those for which
it isn't. Just at this moment you need it
more than you need anything else. You'll
be fit as a fiddle to-morrow—and you'll
need to be. I know you pretty well, and I
know the kind of night you would have if
you didn't do this."
Still she demurred. " What time is Doctor
Windisch coming ? "
"Eleven sharp."
Mannheimer, if he got her note, would
come at ten-thirty. She bared her arm
obediently.
Leo Farrant braced himself admirably,
the next morning, to meet the great specialist.
Miss Dall, accustomed to every
manifestation of the impulse to live, took
it for hope. Marie Farrant knew better.
Leo was merely counting on the luxury of
being pulled to pieces by a first-rate intelligence
: he was supremely interested. He
had not expected anything so exciting to
happen to him again—ever. They were
very cheerful, the three, together; with
that strange spontaneous gayety which
often bursts into sudden flower in a sickroom.
Waiting for Windisch gave them
all respite; until he came there was no
need to think. It was hardest, for every
reason, on Mrs. Farrant; not least because
she had Mannheimer to face at half past
ten. She could not tell Leo about the appointment.
She was glad that she didn't
have to; though it stabbed her to see him
so helpless that one could keep things from
him. She managed to get a word in her
sitting-room with Miss Dall when Mannheimer's
card came up—enough to make
sure that her retreat to the attic with the
dealer would be skilfully covered for her.
How she loathed these evasions—just as
she had loathed, for months, the secret,
sordid tragedy of her dwindling bankaccount.
What was left in life when husband
or wife had to conceal from the other
the other's own affairs?
She made some explanation to Mann-