“Strength shall be given
Thee”
On the evening of the day of the trial, Mrs. Tynan,
having fixed the new blind to the window of Shiel
Crozier’s room, which was on the ground-floor
front, was lowering and raising it to see if it worked
properly, when out in the moonlit street she saw a
wagon approaching her house surrounded and followed
by obviously excited men. Once before she had
seen just such a group nearing her door. That
was when her husband was brought home to die in her
arms. She had a sudden conviction, as, holding
the blind in her hand, she looked out into the night,
that again tragedy was to cross her threshold.
Standing for an instant under the fascination of terror,
she recovered herself with a shiver, and, stepping
down from the chair where she had been fixing the blind,
with the instinct of real woman, she ran to the bed
of the room where she was, and made it ready.
Why did she feel that it was Shiel Crozier’s
bed which should be made ready? Or did she not
feel it? Was it only a dazed, automatic act,
not connected with the person who was to lie in the
bed? Was she then a fatalist? Were trouble
and sorrow so much her portion that to her mind this
tragedy, whatever it was, must touch the man nearest
to her—and certainly Shiel Crozier was
far nearer than Jesse Bulrush. Quite apart from
wealth or position, personality plays a part more powerful
than all else in the eyes of every woman who has a
soul which has substance enough to exist at all.
Such men as Crozier have compensations for “whate’er
they lack.” It never occurred to Mrs. Tynan
to go to Jesse Bulrush’s room or the room of
middle-aged, comely Nurse Egan. She did the instinctive
thing, as did the woman who sent a man a rope as a
gift, on the ground that the fortune in his hand said
that he was born not to be drowned.
Mrs. Tynan’s instinct was right. By the
time she had put the bed into shape, got a bowl of
water ready, lighted a lamp, and drawn the bed out
from the wall, there was a knocking at the door.
In a moment she had opened it, and was faced by John
Sibley, whose hat was off as though he were in the
presence of death. This gave her a shock, and
her eyes strove painfully to see the figure which
was being borne feet foremost over her threshold.
“It’s Mr. Crozier?” she asked.
“He was shot coming home here—by
the M’Mahon mob, I guess,” returned Sibley
huskily.
“Is—is he dead?” she asked
tremblingly. “No. Hurt bad.”
“The kindest man—it’d break
Kitty’s heart—and mine,” she
added hastily, for she might be misunderstood; and
John Sibley had shown signs of interest in her daughter.
“Where’s the Young Doctor?” she
asked, catching sight of Crozier’s face as they
laid him on the bed. “He’s done the
first aid, and he’s off getting what’s
needed for the operation. He’ll be here
in a minute or so,” said a banker who, a few
days before, had refused Crozier credit.
