Partners (13 page)

"I appreciate you!" he said, looking deeply into her eyes. And then with a warm grasp of her hand he pulled her to her feet. "Come on," he said, "you and I are going down to the house restaurant to lunch! I've got some things to tell you and the nurse said she wouldn't be needing us for an hour. Then you can come back and relieve her while she goes to lunch."

They went down to a quiet table in the far end of a large dining room, and as soon as they had ordered he began to talk in a low tone.

"You know, I haven't been idle this morning," he said.

"I didn't think you had," said Dale. "You've accomplished wonders in so short a time. Getting us all moved to such a delightful place, contacting the doctor and nurse, and even buying a layette! That was two or three days' hard work. And you said you went to the police headquarters. I don't see when you did it all."

"Oh, I did that last night before I slept. It was only a couple of blocks away, and I felt uneasy till it was accomplished."

"Well, what did they say? Did you find out anything?"

"Yes, I did. I found the baby's mother!"

"You did?" said Dale, her eyes full of mingling delight and anxiety. "What was she like?"

"Like a little dead white lily!"

"Dead!" Dale's eyes were wide with sorrow. "Oh, poor little thing. Then she didn't just throw her baby away."

"No, I think not! She gave evidence of having been half starved herself. She must have dropped in the snow just after she laid the baby in the doorway. The ambulance took her to the hospital, but she was gone, they say, by the time she reached there."

"Do they know who she was? Was there anything about her to identify her?"

"No, not really. She was wearing a thin little gold ring, a wedding ring, but there were only initials in in. It might be traced somehow, I don't know. We'll do our best. But there were no marks on her clothing, which was of the plainest and much worn."

"But how can you be sure she was the baby's mother?"

"Well, it's a curious thing. She was wearing a man's vest underneath her tattered dress, either for the slight warmth it would give her, or because she wished to save it. It looks very much to me like the same cloth that is in the old coat the baby was wearing! I'm having the coat thoroughly cleaned now and compared with the vest. I thought it might be a clue to trace who the child was. He might sometime be glad we had done it."

Her eyes met his with deep sympathy in them.

"Oh, yes," she said. "That was right."

"I brought the ring with me," he said, and taking out a tiny fold of tissue paper he handed it over to her.

She unwrapped it tenderly. Some poor little girl away from everybody who loved her. Her husband gone! Or was he? Would he leave her wantonly, a woman with a tiny baby? No, for she wouldn't have cherished his old clothes. There was so little warmth in just a vest. Dale felt sure the woman would have left it behind if she hadn't loved it. But she said nothing about it then, just turned the pitiful little ring in her fingers and studied the inscription carefully.

"This should be kept for him," she said softly.

"Yes," said Rand. "It shall be."

"Where--was she? In the hospital?"

"No, in the morgue," said Rand sadly. "I had the body moved to an undertaker's. I'd like to arrange for a little service, just for the sake of leaving the record of it for the kid. It might mean something to him--if he lives."

Dales face softened.

"Yes," she said. "Of course. We can write an account of it for him. It is bound to mean something to him."

"I was thinking," said Rand after a pause during which their order was brought, "I was wondering if you would mind, if you can be spared a few minutes, just running out and trying to find something--a dress and things for the woman. It would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Of course," said Dale understandingly. "I'll be glad to go. White, I think would be good, wouldn't you? Like the snow on the night she died. White like one of God's angels. It would be nice to tell the child it was white. How does she look? What kind of hair?"

"Rather lovely if she weren't so worn and thin. Her hair is gold, and curly. She might have been beautiful once when she was in health."

"Poor little girl," said Dale. "I wish we could have told her that we were caring for the little child. But perhaps--the angels may tell her. God may tell her!"

Rand gave her a quick appreciative look. He liked her tender faraway gaze. He felt she really believed what she was saying. He had never met any girls who would have said a thing like that, or who would have believed it.

"Perhaps!" he said thoughtfully. "There are probably a lot of things like that that we don't understand, and don't know about. I wish I knew more about such things. I've rather got away from what my mother taught me, but I find a longing now and then to get back to them. I wonder, now, where I could find a preacher who wouldn't mind coming out of his way to hold a little service for a poor little unknown? Would you know any? Of course, I know who the great preachers are, the eloquent and renowned. Somehow I wouldn't want to ask them, even if I paid them something pretty nice. I would rather have a plain one who understood and would be in sympathy."

"Yes," said Dale unexpectedly, "I do know one. He preaches at a little chapel where the people are real. I haven't been but a few times, but always there has been something good to remember."

"That sounds like it," said Rand. "I wanted somebody like that. Of course, there'll be nobody there but--myself perhaps. Would you go?"

"Of course," said Dale, "unless I'm needed here."

"I think we could fix it at a right time. Now, suppose I call up that preacher. What is his number?"

"I have it upstairs in my bag. I'll get it for you before you go."

They planned the brief service as thoughtfully as though it had been for one of their own, and then when they had finished eating Rand took her out and showed her where the dress shop was, and together they selected a soft white frock that the angels might look on with content, a little boy might grow up to be happy about, and a mother long gone to glory might be glad and thankful about.

"There must be flowers," said Dale sweetly. "She won't have had many flowers in these latter days, I'm sure. Of course, there will be flowers in heaven where she's gone, but there must be flowers in the picture for the little boy to think about. I will send white roses. I'll put a white rose in her hand."

"I'll send flowers, too," said Rand. "Bright flowers to make it cheerful. Crimson perhaps."

"Crimson for the blood of Christ that washes white as snow and saves from sin," said Dale very softly, and looked up shyly. She did not know what the young man would think of that. They hadn't ever spoken about such things. "Perhaps she was saved," she murmured.

Rand looked at her almost embarrassed.

"My mother used to talk that way," he said after a minute. "I'm glad you're like that."

She flashed a little tender smile at him.

"And I think," she said after a minute, "that we should send some flowers from the baby. She would like that, and he will like to be told that he sent them. Forget-me-nots would be nice if we can find them."

"Yes, forget-me-nots," said Rand. "We'll find them! Perhaps as you say she will be watching."

"Yes, and the angels will be there to see. It will be quite a gathering. I never thought of that before."

"You make everything rather wonderful, you know," said Rand in quiet admiration. "That's a beautiful thought. It makes it all worthwhile."

"Yes," said Dale. "I suppose everything is worthwhile if we can only see God and the angels in it."

Rand looked at her and marveled. This was a girl in a thousand. He hadn't even known there was one in the whole world like this one. And he had happened on her! He knew girls in the office. Plenty of them. Hardworking girls, with tired eyes and bedraggled hair. Sometimes they got a permanent or a wave, and even then it looked as if it were made of cloth, cut in scallops, and one knew it wouldn't stay looking dressed up. He knew other girls with hard eyes, and highly illuminated countenances, and hair that was precise in regular waves, or rolls, or whatever fashion ordained, well done, and often becoming. Some of them were even brave and clever and would go into fire or danger or in the vicinity of crime, with a daring that would befit a man, but he knew not one who even thought about God, or angels, or would dare voice such a thought if they had ever had it. But this girl had a sweet face, with great brown eyes that had a real tenderness in them, eyes that hadn't been used to flirting. They were tired eyes, and yet they could twinkle. There was a shadow of sadness about the sweet droop of her mouth, but those lips could smile, and they could frame lovely comfort for a little helpless cherub of the street. Something happened to his heart as he watched her, getting a glimpse of a world invisible that might be all around him at that moment.

"Perhaps it is!" he said thoughtfully. "My mother used to talk that way sometimes. That is, she used to seem as if God was very near to her. I don't know whether she had got so far as to take the angels into her scheme of things or not. But heaven was pretty real to her, I know, and they must have been somewhere in the background, I'm sure."

Dale gave him a quick appreciative look.

"Oh, you
would
have had a mother like that of course!" she said earnestly. "And how glad she must be for what you are doing now."

"I guess she is," he said, giving her a wistful look that grew into a tender smile.

Then he glanced at his watch.

"Well, say, partner, we'll have to be hurrying if we're going to get back and relieve the nurse. We might just stop on the way and give the order for the flowers."

So they went on their way together, partners in a blessed mission for an unknown woman whose body was waiting to be laid away with unexpected ceremony and dignity.

It was lovely the way they chose the flowers, all with the thought of the little baby who was lying so desperately sick not far away, trying to think what he would want some far day if he lived to grow up and know about the little dead mother who had perhaps done the best she could for him.

But when they got back to the apartment, even their inexperienced eyes could see that the baby was no better and that the nurse wore her gravest professional look.

"I've sent for the doctor!" she said crisply, as if she were giving an order. "You better both stay by till he comes."

When the doctor arrived his face was grave indeed.

"I don't know how it is going to come out," he said quietly to Rand. "We'll do our best to save the little life, but it looks exceedingly doubtful. This thing has taken a form that is always hard to combat, and what you have told me of the child and the experience he went through, makes his background of the worst. Still he may pull through. Be assured that the best we have we'll be giving you."

And when he went away, and the nurse went out for a brief walk and her lunch, Rand and Dale settled down near the little willow crib to wait and watch.

There wasn't much that they could do, just a little matter of giving medicine, a few spoonfuls of feeding, certain directions to be followed in case of emergency, which might or might not come.

They did not talk, except now and then in whispers when it was necessary.

Rand sat in a big chair with his eyes closed for the most part, and Dale, a little closer to the crib, sat with bowed head. And then finally she slipped down on her knees, her head bent, her eyes closed. Once when Rand opened his eyes he saw her lips were moving. She was praying! He wasn't used to girls who prayed--at least not in front of anyone, even quietly.

Very gravely he sat there thinking about it. He hadn't prayed himself in a long time. His life in the city away from his home influences had not helped him to feel near to God. But he began then to pray in his heart.

But the baby began to start and cry out and they were on the alert again, doing what they had been told to do, their hearts failing them as they touched the little hot hands, so feeble and helpless. The poor little lamb who had no one of his own to do for him. They more they worked the more their own hearts went out to the child, and looking at her once as he laid the baby softly down on its pillow, Rand saw that there were tears on Dale's cheeks, though perhaps she did not know it.

The nurse came in presently, gave a quick glance at the child, another at the clock, asked a crisp question or two, and then took charge.

Rand took his coat and hat and stepped to the door, and Dale followed him into the hall for a moment.

"Does he look worse to you?" she asked anxiously.

"Why, I'm afraid my judgment wouldn't be worth much" he said. "I've never been around sickness much, and especially with children. He looks sick enough, but they say children can be very sick and get well quickly. I wouldn't grieve. He isn't our baby. He belongs to God, I guess. If God wants him to live I think he will, don't you?"

She smiled tenderly.

"Yes, I guess that's right," said Dale with a tremble of her lip, "but somehow I guess I've been thinking--he belonged--to us--to
you
, I mean. You found him."

"To
us
." He said it with a grave smile, and he reached out and laid his hand on her. "If I found him you saved his life. How you have worked to save him! I'll never forget that of you!"

"Well," she said smiling in the midst of her tears, "you can't help loving a little scrap of helplessness like that. He's sweet! I don't see how he can be so sweet when he's been through so much."

"I know," said Rand, and he brushed a mist from his own eyes. "It gets you, doesn't it? Well, I've got to go along. I'm going to find that preacher if I can, and arrange for that service. It will have to be adjustable, because we might be needed here, you know. Would you feel like going to it?"

"Oh yes, I
must
!" said Dale. "I would want to see that everything was right to remember--to tell the baby if he lives. Oh--anyway, I'd want to be there. I feel as if she belonged to us. She hasn't anybody else now."