Between Friends

As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to wall. At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at her.

The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she bent over him.

“I want—Graylock,” he whispered. The girl flushed, bent nearer, gazing at him intently.

“Graylock,” he repeated.

“Not now,” she murmured, “not today. Rest for a while.”

“Please,” he said, looking up at her trustfully—“Graylock. Now.”

“When you are well—”

“I am—well. Please, dear.”

For a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his limp hands in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took his eyes from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful expression, unchanging, trustful that she would do his bidding.

So at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock. It was late. She went downstairs to the janitor’s quarters where there was a messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christmas day kept them busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday was permitted them, for it was long after dinner and the full tide of gaiety in town was doubtless at its flood.

So she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; then she rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry darkness through the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking eleven.

As she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone. She hesitated. But the memory of Drene’s eyes, their wistfulness and trust decided her.

After a little waiting she got Graylock’s apartment. A servant asked her to hold the wire.

After an interval she recognized Graylock’s voice at the telephone, pleasant, courteous, serenely wishing her the happiness of the season.

“What are you doing this Christmas night?” she asked. “Surely you are not all alone there at home?”

“I am rather too old for anything else,” he said.

“But what are you doing? Reading?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I happened to be cleaning an automatic revolver when you called up.”

“What a gay employment for Christmas night! Is that your idea of celebrating?”

“There happens to be nothing else for me to do tonight.”

“But there is. You are requested to make a call.”

“On whom?” he asked, quietly.

“On Mr. Drene.”

For a full minute he remained silent, although she spoke to him twice, thinking the connection might have been interrupted. Then his voice came, curiously altered:

“Who asked that of me?”

“Mr. Drene.”

“Mr. Drene is very ill, I hear.”

“He is convalescent.”

“Did he ask you to call me?”

“Certainly.”

“Then—you are with him?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In his apartment. I came downstairs to the janitor’s rooms. I am telephoning from there what he wished me to ask you.”

After a pause Graylock said: “Is his mind perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly, now.”

“He asked for me?”

“Yes. Will you come?”

“He asked for me? Tonight? At eleven o’clock?”

She said: “I don’t think he knows even what month it is. He has only been conscious for a day or two. Had he known it was Christmas night perhaps he might not have disturbed you. But—will you come?”

“I am afraid it is too late—to-night.”

“Tomorrow, then? Shall I tell him?”

There was a silence. She repeated the question. But Graylock’s reply was inaudible and she thought he said good-bye instead of good night.

Somewhere in the rear of the basement the janitor and his family and probably all his relatives were celebrating. A fiddle squeaked in there; there was a steady tumult of voices and laughter.

The girl stood a while listening, a slight smile on her lips. Blessed happiness had come to her in time for Christmas—a strange and heavenly happiness, more wonderful than when a life is spared to one who loves, for it had been more than the mere life of this man she had asked of God: it had been his mind.

He lay asleep when she entered and stood by the shaded lamp, looking down at him.

After a while she seated herself and took up her sewing. But laid it aside again as there came a low knocking at the door.

Drene opened his eyes as Graylock entered all alone and stood still beside the bed looking down at him. In the studio Cecile moved about singing under her breath. They both heard her.

Drene nodded weakly. After a moment he made the effort to speak:

“I am trying to get well—to start again—better—live more—nobly. … Take your chance, too.”