Sidney Miller had never held any sleeping human being before in his life. Not even Sheilah when she was a baby. It hadn't been allowed. Dora said it wasn't good for babies to be held. Nobody had ever clung to Sidney Miller and become limp and relaxed like this in his arms. It gave him a sort of choked feeling. Of course he had always been fond of Sheilah. Naturally. His own child. And suffered tortures if ever she was sick or in danger, and felt fearfully sorry for the poor kid when Dora had insisted upon some of her theories, but he had never known Sheilah intimately. A daughter belonged first to her mother, Dora said. Besides, Dora understood girls so much better. He had never caressed Sheilah nor she him, except in fun—in a spirit of laughter and play. And now suddenly, when she was broken and bruised, she turned to him—she clung to him, and went to sleep in his arms! Good Lord! But it gripped him! It must be weak and sentimental to feel like this about one's own child. He was ashamed of the aching tenderness that stirred him whenever he glanced down at Sheilah. But ashamed though he was, he hoped Dora wouldn't come and interrupt the new sensations. He had given Dora two sleeping-tablets an hour ago. She had consented to lie down. He hoped that she had fallen asleep.
How big Sheilah was! Why, a woman now almost. He hadn't realized it. Curves he hadn't been aware of had formed, it seemed, overnight. Only yesterday she had been a little girl. But now—was this great, long, lovely creature his daughter—his own daughter indeed? How heavy she was—how satisfyingly heavy. He had become aware now of her weight. But he liked it. He liked his arm aching a little where her body pressed it against the chair-arm. He drew the comforter, which he had dragged off the bed when he first carried her to the chair, closer about her. Funny how just trying to protect her from the cold woke up long-sleeping emotions in him!
It was when the hall-clock struck two that Sheilah stirred and began moaning. She must be dreaming, Sidney thought, and he spoke her name gently. She opened her eyes, struggled to a sitting position, and spoke. But she didn't wake up.
'They won't come off,' she said, in a voice full of despair. 'Oh! Oh!—They won't come off.' And she began rubbing one of her wrists in a strange, sort of Lady Macbeth fashion, as if there was something on it. Suddenly her body became taut and rigid, and she cried out, 'There's one here.' And she began rubbing her lips!
Sidney shook her. 'Wake up, Sheilah,' he commanded.
She responded almost immediately, looked at him, raised her hand, and touched his cheek to see if he were real, sighed, 'Father,' and then sank back into his arms, her body melting against him again.
'Did you have a bad dream?'
'Yes.' She spoke with difficulty as if she had been running hard. 'I often have it. It was worse this time.'
'Well, dreams can't hurt you,'
'No, but they can frighten you dreadfully!'
'But it's good to wake up.'
'For a minute it's good. Till the real things begin frightening you. Where's mother?'
'In her room.'
'I've done a dreadful thing to her.'
'No, you haven't. I think she's asleep. She'll be all right in the morning.'
There was a long pause.
'Father'
'Yes.'
'Father' It was very still in the room. The glimmer of light from the hall made a soft brown mist over everything. The stillness and the brown mist covered you, shielded you, and the touch of a rough sleeve smelling of tobacco, against your cheek, gave you a feeling of strength and courage. 'Father,' Sheilah said quietly, 'Would you feel badly to have me marry the son of a plumber?'
'A plumber?'
'Yes. Felix Nawn. His father is a plumber. The Nawns, you know. They go to our church. Aren't some plumbers nice?'
'Felix Nawn? The Nawns?' Sidney Miller groped. The vague outline of a slow-moving, slope-shouldered figure passing the contribution box in the east gallery, on Sunday, crossed his vision. 'Nawn? A plumber? Is he a plumber? I didn't know it. Of course some plumbers are nice. But what have you got to do with his son, Sheilah?'
'I've got to marry him. I've got to marry Felix Nawn, father.'
A sudden fear—a grotesque, nightmarish thing clutched hold of Sidney Miller. He shook it off. Why, she was only a child!
'Come, Sheilah. I guess that dream is still bothering you, isn't it?'
'No, my dream has nothing to do with Felix. It's not even about Felix. No, father, I know what I'm saying. I've got to marry him. I've tried not to, but there seemed to be powers working against me all the time, and now I can't get away from it. I've just got to marry him, father,' she reiterated. 'It will almost kill mother. Mother wanted something so different for me. That's why I've kept it secret from her. But I can't keep it secret any longer. Don't you understand?'
'But, Sheilah'
'You'll help me, won't you?'
'Of course.'
'And tell mother?'
'Why, of course, but'
'I knew you would. I'm so glad there's you. I think I can go to sleep now, if you wouldn't mind too awfully sitting by my bed awhile. Don't leave me alone. Oh, father, I'm so glad I've told you about Felix.'
Was five o'clock in the morning too early to call up John Sheldon? Was five-fifteen? Was five-twenty? How the minutes crawled! Sitting there beside Sheilah in the gray dawn, filtering through the ruffled windows like white fog, the fear in Sidney Miller's heart grew less phantasmical, more clearly defined, along with the outlines of the furniture in the room, as the light increased.
Hadn't he just been thinking, as he had held Sheilah in his arms an hour ago, how grown-up she was? Almost a woman? It was possible, then, wasn't it? Mistakes—young, impulsive, innocent mistakes, trailing their horrible results after them, were made sometimes. But it couldn't happen to him—to his child, could it? It couldn't happen to Sheilah! Of course not! There would be something fine in Sheilah that would protect and shield her always. Even if she was ignorant. But Dora had often boasted to him that she wasn't ignorant. Oh, perhaps it was a mistake telling girls so much so soon. Perhaps it made them dwell on such things, and broke down their instinctive fineness. Five-thirty. Only five-thirty? Good Lord!
What exactly had Sheilah said, anyway? For the dozenth time he reviewed her few broken, despairing sentences before she fell asleep. 'I've got to marry him. Don't you understand? I've fought against it, but now I can't get away from it. I've tried to keep it secret, but I can't any longer.' Substantiating. Horribly substantiating. And so was her physical condition—her inertia, her lack of appetite, her despondency. It had baffled them all. Even John Sheldon had had no satisfactory explanation to offer. Sidney got out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He couldn't endure this much longer.
He got up and stole out of the room when the hall-clock struck six. He didn't care how early it was. He simply must talk to John Sheldon. John would put an end to this torturing uncertainty. It was unreasonable, he supposed, to rout a man out of bed at such an hour, just because you were racked by a fear that might prove groundless. Oh, if it only did prove groundless! Why, he'd give John Sheldon half his fortune to have him come over now, immediately, and tell him he'd been all kinds of a fool. John Sheldon had had many similar half-fortunes left him.
Sidney tiptoed noiselessly past Dora's door (thank heaven, she was still sleeping! Dora mustn't suspect), and stole down the stairs to the telephone.
John Sheldon had been asleep just one hour when the telephone-bell, muffled out of regard for Charlotte, burred softly on the base-board by his head. He had been out till twelve helping an old man reluctantly leave the world; and till nearly five helping a baby reluctantly enter it. Charlotte heard the burr. It always woke her up, though John wasn't aware of it.
'Hello,' she heard him saying. 'Why, hello, Sid,' so pleasantly—so almost enthusiastically, as if it was a perfectly Christian hour, and he was about to receive a delightful invitation of some sort. 'Why, of course not,' he went on in the same tone. 'Not a bit too early, Sid. Almost time to get up, anyway. Go ahead.' Silence then as he listened, and afterwards, 'I'll come right over. I'll be there in ten minutes.'
Charlotte inquired, though she very well knew, 'Who's calling at such an hour?'
John replied, swinging out of bed for the third time that night, 'Sidney Miller. Sheilah hasn't had a very good night.'
'Does she actually need you, do you think?'
'Oh, I guess not. She's asleep now.'
'Honestly, John, you do let people impose on you So.'
'Well, Sid sounded as if he sort of needed somebody,' John apologized.
'Sort of needed somebody! Really! Why, it's unbecoming to your position, John, running out like this at such an hour, when it isn't necessary.'
'Sorry. It's been a mean night for you, Charlotte. I'll pull the shades down, so you can sleep late.'
Sidney was watching for John. He was at the front door when John's old gray Cadillac coughed into the drive. He let him in silently, led the way into the living-room, and closed the door behind him. Then burst out:
'Something's happened. Sheilah has told me something. It explains everything. I'm afraid something dreadful has happened to Sheilah.' And he poured forth his fears, accumulated through the long watching hours by Sheilah's side, without reserve, without apology, as a frightened child to a brother much older. Yet John was several years his junior.
Afterwards John said quietly, seriously, just as if anxiety deserved as much consideration as suffering from an actual calamity, 'Well, Sid, I'll go upstairs and see. You'd better go out and take a walk for half an hour, and I'll be able to tell you definitely, I think, when you get back. And, look here, don't worry too much, Sid. I really don't think there's a chance in a hundred.'
He was like a rock. John Sheldon was like a rock. Even if the terrible thing proved true, still he would be like a rock.
Of course Sidney didn't go outdoors. 'Be as quick as you can,' he said at Sheilah's door, and went downstairs again into the living-room.
The window-shades were still drawn down. He hadn't noticed it till now. No maids stirring yet, of course. He wasn't used to seeing the window-shades drawn down in the living-room when it was light outside. It was as if some one had died. The evening paper was all tossed about on the floor, too, in dreadful confusion, just as he had left it, he supposed, when he had rushed upstairs last night (was it only last night?) when Dora had called him, frightened, from the upper hall, and he had heard Sheilah crying out in that horrible way. He began raising the window-shades now and folding up the paper—it was better to do something—and then fell to walking up and down the room. He had walked up and down this room before when John Sheldon had been upstairs, but the fear of death had not been as terrible as this.
It seemed as if John never would come. Perhaps he'd better try reading. A magazine. Or the paper. An editorial, perhaps. He sat down. Where was the editorial page, anyway? Never mind! He got up and began walking up and down the room again. Awful—this waiting. Worse than when Sheilah was born. That same bitter taste in the back of his mouth again. That same sensation of dropping through space, when some unexpected noise, like the clock striking, or the milkman's truck outside, startled him. That same horrible pressure afterwards on his chest, as if he'd fallen finally, and the blow had turned his breath into something thick, which could be drawn only with difficulty through tubes too small. What in heaven's name took John so long, anyhow? He had said a half an hour. Already thirty-five minutes had crawled by. This delay was not a favorable omen. Oh, poor Sheilah! Poor Sheilah! What was he to do with her? Where was he to take her? And Dora! Who was to tell Dora? John would have to tell Dora. John would have to put that knife in.
Suddenly Sidney heard John's step on the stairs. He stood still just where he was in the middle of the room, staring at the door through which John would enter. John was smiling! Well, he might be smiling just to be kind, even if
John came up to him close.
'It's all right, Sid,' he said quietly.
'What did you say?'
'I said it's all right. Sheilah is all right. Your fears are groundless.'
Sidney looked at John searchingly. 'How do you know it's all right, John?'
John replied, smiling, 'Because it's my business to know, Sid.'
'And you do know?'
'I know.'
Sidney accepted it at last. He sank down in a chair near by. 'Thanks,' he said weakly, 'thanks.' He groped for John Sheldon's hand, got hold of it, squeezed it. 'Thanks, John.'
'Nonsense, Sid,' said John, and got his hand away.
'I guess I've been rather of a fool,' murmured Sidney.
'Well, rather,' agreed John Sheldon. 'Haven't had your clothes off, have you, Sid?'
Sidney shook his head. Good heavens, he hoped he wasn't going to break down. John probably saw what a state he was in, for he offered him a cigarette from his own pocket. 'Have one?' and held the match for him.
Afterwards, when they were both barriered behind a wall of smoke, John Sheldon went into detail about Sheilah, not looking at Sidney much, gazing out of the window most of the time. Sheilah hadn't been surprised to find him beside her, he said, when she woke up. One is never surprised to find one's doctor beside one, when one wakes up after an accident, or a night like Sheilah's. He and Sheilah had had a splendid talk. Of course it had taken a little time and tact to get her to talk. He was sorry to have kept Sidney waiting so long, but to gain Sheilah's confidence was the battle half-won.
'We've made a great headway to-night towards getting Sheilah out of the woods,' he said finally. 'I am glad this break came. Otherwise she might have gone on bottling up this sense of moral obligation to this boy for months. That's all it is, Sid. And an overdeveloped conscience. Conflicting ideals. They work terrible havoc with certain people. Well, we know what we've got to fight now. We must get her right away from here.'
'Yes. We must get her right away from here,' eagerly Sidney agreed, his relief doing queer things to his voice. Oh, he wished he could tell John how grateful he felt.
John stood up. 'Well, I'll run along back now and get some breakfast, I guess.'
Sidney followed John out to his car, close like a dog.
'Good-bye,' he said, and took one of John Sheldon's hands in both his. He wrung it hard. 'And thanks. I'll never forget it. Thanks, old man.' And he grasped hold of his arm.
'Say, Sid, you act drunk,' laughed John Sheldon, and shook him off. 'You go on in and get some sleep.'
Sidney Miller watched the old gray Cadillac out of sight. He wasn't a religious man, nor a sentimental one usually, but say, God bless men like John Sheldon. God bless men who can drop in in the morning before breakfast, and turn hell into heaven for you, with a simple 'I know.'
'Well,' asked Charlotte, ten minutes later, as John appeared on the threshold, 'was it necessary?'
John Sheldon shrugged.
'Oh, I don't suppose so,' he said.