AFTER THAT FIRST DAY, SIR IAN’S “WHEN CAN I GO home?” was to ring daily in Cherry’s ears. At first it was pleading and sounded strange, coming from a man six feet tall. A man who had ruled thirty years over the island of Balfour, off the coast of Newfoundland, and the famous Balfour Iron Mines, as though he were a king.
But the plea in his voice was because he was physically weak. The moment he began to get better, his usual commanding tone returned and he demanded to know rather than asked. And he tried to bully Dr. Joe into releasing him, and failing that, he tried playing on Cherry’s sympathies.
She always answered primly, “Dr. Joe will tell you when he thinks you’re well enough to make the trip to Balfour Island.”
Sir Ian would first glare at her, then smile ruefully. “Remind me of my Meg—warmhearted, strongheaded, and high-spirited,” he would say.
And he would talk to Cherry about his daughter Meg, who was twenty and the apple of his eye. She was abroad, visiting relatives in Scotland and England.
And he forbid anyone to write Meg about his illness and “ruin her holiday.” He had set his mind on getting well.
“Take it easy,” Dr. Joe kept cautioning him. “To worry or fret is the worst thing you can do. Forget about business.” Then, with a grin, he would add, “Enjoy ill health and get a good rest for three or four weeks.”
Sir Ian had followed the doctor’s orders to the letter. In return for his obedience, however, he expected to see such great improvement every twenty-four hours that he would be told he could return to Balfour Island.
Lloyd Barclay and the pilot, Jerry Ives, were as much in the dark as Cherry and Dr. Joe as to exactly why Sir Ian was insistent upon returning home. They all knew by now that Sir Ian’s news over the telephone concerned closing a mine.
“But that’s no reason for Uncle Ian to go home,” Lloyd said. “Number 2 mine, which has not been worked for years, was reopened shortly before we left. When Uncle Ian called our Mine Office, he learned that the walls of one tunnel were too weak for the miners’ safety. Mining had been stopped until the walls could be reinforced. A thing like that can happen when an unworked mine is reopened. Of course Uncle Ian was terribly upset to have it happen so soon after starting out on a long tour. But he’s building a mountain out of a molehill, if he thinks he must go back to see to things.”
“People who worry sometimes build mountains out of molehills,” Dr. Joe pointed out. “Your uncle told me that he had not been away from Balfour for any length of time in many years. Obviously he feels, whether it is true or not, that without him there to run the mines, they won’t run properly.”
“But he seemed to be fine when we started on the tour,” Lloyd said. “He even joked with Jock Cameron about coming back to find himself out of a job. Mr. Cameron has been superintendent of Balfour Mines for over thirty years. Uncle Ian left Jock Cameron in charge while he was away.”
“I remember Sir Ian joking with Mr. Cameron just before we took off in the plane,” agreed Jerry Ives. “Sir Ian was in good spirits.”
“But then later on,” Lloyd said thoughtfully, “Uncle Ian seemed—well, detached, I suppose you’d call it. It was as though something worried him and he was trying not to let it bother him. For instance, he would sit lost in thought. I would have to repeat a question a couple of times before he heard me. Then he would rouse himself, so to speak, and answer. Once in a while we might even talk for a time. But it was not until we made our first stop at some iron mines in the upper peninsula of Michigan that he became enthusiastic about anything. There he saw some methods being used in the mines that he wanted to try out in our Balfour Mines. He was as excited as a boy over the idea.”
“But later in the plane,” Jerry added, “Sir Ian began to brood again. It was not until he had seen the mines here in Illinois that he was in fine fettle. You remember, Lloyd, your uncle remarked what a lot he got out of seeing how efficiently mines could be operated. Then, of course, he made that telephone call to Balfour Island.”
“When the three of us got into the plane and took off,” Lloyd said, “I noticed Uncle was, as Jerry called it, brooding again. When he told me the bad news, I tried to cheer him up, but with no success. In a little while, he was in pain and—well, we all know the rest.”
They were all four—Cherry, Dr. Joe, Lloyd Barclay, and Jerry Ives—in the sitting room of the suite. It was almost a week since Sir Ian had been admitted to Hilton Hospital, but it was the first time they had talked informally. Lloyd had visited his uncle as often as he was allowed. The pilot had come at least once a day, but they had both been under too much strain to want to chat. Today Sir Ian was definitely showing improvement and they all felt somewhat relaxed.
Perhaps it would be fairer to say that Jerry Ives was trying to give the appearance of being at ease.
“I wonder what he’s so nervous about?” Cherry thought, as she watched him shifting from side to side and drumming his fingers on the chair arm. “Probably has a date with one of the nurses and is trying to think of a graceful exit line.”
He had a pleasant, engaging manner that was very attractive and went well with his red hair and impudent grin. He had met some of the girls and dated a couple for dinner and the movies. He had taken one date for a ride in the private plane and given her the thrill of her life. They thought the Canadian pilot was “wonderful.”
Midge, Dr. Joe’s daughter, who was a junior volunteer nurse’s aide at Hilton Hospital, came in as usual after school one afternoon. Jerry was just leaving the hospital, “looking so absolutely marvelous, it took my breath away,” Midge told the Ames family with whom she was having dinner that same night. “And he said ‘hallo’ in that marvelous English accent.”
Charlie, Cherry’s twin brother, gave a most ungentlemanly snort. “A fellow says hello and you are swept off your feet,” he commented. “You surprise me, Midge. You really do. I thought you were beginning to grow up and be sensible.”
Charlie and Midge would have wound up in a good-natured but noisy discussion of Jerry Ives, if Mrs. Ames had not switched the conversation to Lloyd Barclay.
Cherry, in talking about Lloyd Barclay, had to admit that the nurses did not think he was “wonderful.”
“I should say not,” Midge piped up. “He never has more than two words to say to anyone: ‘Good morning,’ ‘Good afternoon,’ ‘Good evening.’ The nurses think he’s just a snob. Even Millie Reynolds, who, when she first saw him thought he was a real dreamboat, decided he’s too standoffish for her.” Midge shrugged and added, “Of course, he does have the most beautiful manners.”
Cherry had thought Lloyd was a little snobbish too at the beginning, but having seen him every day, she knew better. He was a kind, warm person, but very sensitive and shy. “The nurses ought to see him now,” Cherry thought, as she, Dr. Joe, Jerry Ives, and Lloyd sat talking in Sir Ian’s sitting room. “They would get a very different impression.”
His manner was alive and his voice friendly as he talked with Dr. Joe about the hazards and diseases of miners.
“My uncle will never forget how you saved Mr. Cameron’s life that time you were up in Canada,” Lloyd said suddenly when they came to a pause.
“And don’t think I will forget it, either,” declared Dr. Joe. Turning to Cherry, he explained in a hurt tone, “Cost me several sleepless nights and almost cost me my fishing trip.” Then he went on to relate how he was on his way to meet some friends in Canada to go fishing. His plane had run into fog, got off course, and had to come down at St. John’s, Newfoundland. At the same time, a little mail plane from Balfour Island landed with Sir Ian and a man dying of pneumonia.
“Always carry my case with me,” said the doctor, “and it came in handy that night. Managed to keep the old man—he must have been very near eighty—alive until we could get him to the hospital. The fog was so thick, it was a wonder that the ambulance could get from the hospital and back again.”
“That old man you saved,” Lloyd said, “died years later. Lived to the ripe old age of ninety-five. He was Jock Cameron’s father; the Camerons have been superintendents of our mines ever since there were any Barclays on the island. Uncle Ian always remembered how you pulled old John through and stayed with him until he was out of danger. And he has kept up with your work, Dr. Fortune. Every time your name is mentioned in the news—maybe you’ve read a paper before some medical society—Uncle Ian always takes note of it. As a matter of fact, just before he collapsed, he asked Jerry the name of the nearest town. Jerry told him Hilton and that it had a private landing field. Then Uncle told Jerry to land and me to call Dr. Joseph Fortune.”
Jerry Ives had begun to fidget with his hat, then asked abruptly, “Doctor, now frankly, it’s going to be some time before Sir Ian will be out of here, isn’t it?” Seeing the puzzled look on Dr. Joe’s face, he hastened to explain, “Well, you see, there’s no need for me to wait around to fly him back. At least that’s what I told Mr. Broderick. And he said for me to get back to Montreal right away.”
Cherry saw Lloyd Barclay’s face flush with quick anger.
“Jerry, I told you I would call Mr. Broderick at the end of the week,” Lloyd said acidly. “By then I hoped we’d have a clear idea of just what my uncle’s condition was. Besides, I just might want to continue the tour of mines alone. So by what right …”
“I don’t know what your uncle may have told you, Lloyd, but Mr. James Broderick’s my boss. He gives the orders so far as I am concerned,” Ives said, shrugging.
“If Mr. Broderick wants you back in Montreal, then you’d better go,” said Lloyd.
As Ives rose, he glanced rather sheepishly at Cherry and Dr. Joe. “I don’t want you to feel I am running out on Sir Ian,” he apologized, flashing them a boyish grin, “but as I told Mr. Broderick when I called him, there doesn’t seem to be much point in my hanging around here, so …” His voice trailed off.
“I’m sure there’s none,” Dr. Fortune said, getting up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go have a look at my patient.” He nodded to the pilot and left.
“I have a bag to pack,” Jerry said, “so I’d better get going.” He started across the room, then stopped and turned around. “Say good-bye to Sir Ian for me. Hope he gets well soon, I honestly do.”
“Thank you, Jerry. I’ll tell him,” Lloyd said, and getting up followed the other to the door.
“Good-bye, Miss Ames,” called Jerry, and the next moment he was gone.
Cherry felt embarrassed at having witnessed the scene between the two, in spite of the fact that as a nurse she was certainly exposed to many intimate family affairs. Lloyd Barclay would probably feel that she was in the way, so …
“Please excuse me, Mr. Barclay,” she said. “It’s time for your uncle’s feeding.” And she hurried out of the room.
Dr. Fortune was pulling the sheet up, after having examined Sir Ian once again. “You’re coming along. You say no pain to speak of, that’s good,” Dr. Joe was remarking. “We’ll take some X rays, and then we’ll see what we’ll see. I’ve been in touch, as you know, with your Dr. Douglas Mackenzie on the island and he’s given me a summary of your case. Sounds like a fine young physician. Ulcer of the duodenum, that first inch of bowel next to the outlet of the stomach, he told me. A small crater there, no perforation.” The doctor looked around to Cherry. “Ah, there you are, Miss Ames. I was on the point of calling you.” Nodding toward Sir Ian, he went on, “The patient wondered if you’d mind very much writing a letter and mailing it for him.”
“Why, of course not,” Cherry said cheerfully. “I’ll just prepare Sir Ian’s four-o’clock feeding …” She caught the glint in the mine owner’s eye and stopped. “Correction, milk with cream in it. Sir Ian finds the word ‘feeding’ distasteful,” she told Dr. Joe.
“Call it nectar and ambrosia, Miss Ames, if that will help,” suggested the doctor solemnly.
“Even nectar and ambrosia become a bit monotonous,” declared Sir Ian, “if given at intervals of every two hours. What name did you give this treatment, Doctor? Oh, yes, I recall—Sippy. And it is quite aptly named, if I may say so.”
Dr. Joe laughed. “It happens, Sir Ian, that that was the name of the doctor who devised the treatment of peptic ulcer—Dr. Bertram Sippy of Chicago.”
“I refuse to believe it,” said Sir Ian. “It is too pat altogether.”
Cherry had prepared the mixture of equal parts of milk and cream for the feedings throughout the day and had stored them in the suite’s refrigerator. She had only to pour out the correct amount in a glass and hand it to Sir Ian with a glass tube to suck through.
Dr. Joe picked up his bag. “I’ll look in on you in the morning,” he told Sir Ian. “The last test showed the acid in your stomach is being kept down at night, so I won’t come poking and dosing. You can get an uninterrupted night’s sleep.”
Both Cherry and Sir Ian watched the doctor’s slight figure move with quick boyish steps across the room and out the door.
“There is a doctor!” announced Sir Ian.
“And a fine man,” Cherry added. She went over to the writing table in the bedroom and sat down. Getting out note paper and an envelope from the drawer, and her pen from her pocket, she said, “I’m ready for that letter now.”
Sir Ian sucked noisily for a moment, then dictated:
“Dear Jock: Here I am in hospital. You’ll see the name and address at the top of the page. Attack of ulcers. Nothing to worry about. You know I’ve had upsets before this. I am writing to let you know that I have decided not to continue the tour of mines in the United States and Mexico. As soon as I am well enough to travel, I am returning to Balfour.
“No doubt Mike McGuire has told you I talked with him when I called the Mine Office. Now, I am not blaming you, Jock, for what happened in Number two mine. Don’t think for a moment that I am. But with the reopening of Number two and the opening of the new mine, as soon as the preliminary work is done, anything is liable to happen. I should not have let James Broderick persuade me against my better judgment to take the tour at this time.
“I did discover some important new developments in operation during visits to two mines here in the States, so the time has not all been wasted.”
There was a pause, then Sir Ian continued, “Here’s the name and address where you send it: Mr. Jock Cameron, Piper’s Cove, Balfour Island, Newfoundland, Canada.”
Cherry addressed the envelope and held the letter while Sir Ian signed it with a flourish.
“Thank you, Nurse. You’ll find some airmail stamps on the desk, I believe,” he said.
She found them, licked one, and placed it on the letter.
“Now, I suppose you’re going off duty,” Sir Ian complained pettishly. “It’s past four by your watch, I see. And you’re going to leave me to the tender mercies of that starched tyrant.”
“Mrs. Hendrickson is very capable and kind,” Cherry defended the nurse on duty from four P.M. to twelve midnight.
At that moment Mrs. Hendrickson came in, big and bustling and efficient, and took over.
“See you at eight sharp in the morning, Sir Ian,” Cherry called out from the doorway.
“Don’t forget to mail my letter.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
On going into the sitting room, she was surprised to see Lloyd Barclay still there.
“Why, Mr. Barclay, I thought …” she began.
“Thought I’d gone?” he asked. “No, I waited to ask you if you’d stop and have an ice-cream soda with me. The doctor passed through a bit ago and he asked me if I was waiting to see my uncle. It was too bad, he said, but no more visitors were allowed. ‘Who wants to see the auld rascal?’ I asked. ‘I am waiting to see that bonnie lass of a nurse, Miss Ames. I am going to ask her …’ ”
Cherry shook her head sadly and then crinkled her eyes at him. “… her to have an ice-cream soda,” she finished for him.
“And what did the doctor say?” demanded Lloyd, and answered himself in the next breath. “He said it was a brilliant plan.”
“You, Mr. Barclay,” Cherry accused him, “are simply a younger Barclay than the one in there,” pointing to the other room. “You look like him, talk almost like him, and you are a wheedler, and I suspect a bully just like him.”
Lloyd Barclay’s dark-gray eyes regarded her sadly. “I dinna haud with compliments and ye canna take ma mind off its purpose with fancy words,” he said righteously. “How about that soda?”
“I accept with pleasure, Mr. Barclay,” she said in her most ladylike tones.