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<h2>23</h2> Doris was ill. The doctor had telephoned her mother and Mrs. Basine was sitting beside the bed holding Doris' hand. A man she remembered vaguely was standing in a corner of the room smoking. It was the poet, Lindstrum, who was once a friend of Doris. He had been there when she arrived, standing by the window and smoking while the doctor was fixing an ice pack on Doris' head. The doctor had been unable to make a diagnosis. She had a fever but they would have to wait for more definite symptoms. As the twilight filled the studio, Mrs. Basine grew frightened. She thought at moments Doris was dead, she lay so still. She watched the half-closed eyes anxiously. Perhaps Doris would die. And George was in Washington. She had telegraphed but he couldn't arrive till the next day. She sat wondering about her daughter. She remembered her as a child, then as a girl. "Changes, changes," she sighed. Changes that excited one, but all they did was bring one nearer to this. She was thinking of death. "How do you feel now, Doris?" No answer. The burning eyes continued to stare, the hand she held remained limp and dry in her fingers. Perhaps it was nothing serious. Merely a fever. She sat nodding her head at her thoughts. She thought of how her children had grown up and gone away. Fanny, George, Doris, Aubrey, Henrietta, Mrs. Gilchrist, Judge Smith and the grandchildren. These were the names of her family. They were part of her. Yet while the rest of the world grew more and more familiar they grew more and more strange. "Does it pain you anywhere, Doris?" No answer. Poor little Doris. She stroked her face. Life had used her differently. She felt this. She knew nothing of what Doris had done or dreamed, but the staring eyes frightened her and she understood. George frequently called her queer. Yet George was, in a way, proud of her. He used to seek Doris out. And many people had talked of her as a very unusual young woman. But life had used her curiously, not like other girls. Perhaps it was a man. She turned toward the figure in the corner. He was standing holding a pipe to his mouth. What if it was a man? Scandal. Mrs. Basine sighed. What was scandal? It was only a way of looking at facts. She would take her home with her. Poor little Doris living alone in this place and sitting here night after night dreaming of things. That was sad. "Listen dear, do you want something?" No answer. The doctor said he would be back after dinner and bring a nurse. She would ask him if Doris could be moved and then take her home. It was growing darker in the room. Someone was knocking. She opened the door. It was another man. He came in and then paused. "Is Doris ill?" he asked. Mrs. Basine nodded. "I am her mother," she said. Levine looked at her and introduced himself. "You know Mr. Lindstrum," she added. Levine stared at the poet in the shadows and said, "Yes, I know him." "How do you do," said Lindstrum slowly. Doris reached her hand up as Levine approached the bed. He took it and she whispered, "Don't go away." She tried to rise. "You mustn't dear," her mother cautioned. "Oh yes," Doris voice appeared to be growing stronger. "I want to sit up. Help me, Max." He arranged the pillows. The ice-pack fell from her head. She smiled. "You haven't eaten anything, mother," she added. "Please, there's a restaurant around the corner." Mrs. Basine stood up. It might be better to go away for a while. Despite her daughter's momentary recovery her fears had increased. She felt something curious about Doris. But perhaps it was just the fever. She left the room with a final glance at the flushed face. Doris had always been strange, but there was something disturbing about her now. Her daughter's eyes watching her opening the door, chilled her heart suddenly. She held herself from rushing to her side and taking her in her arms. She didn't know why, but she was certain there was something strange about Doris. She walked into the hall. Yes, she was certain something terrible was going to happen. When the door closed Doris sat against the pillows, her white face turned toward Lindstrum in the shadows. "Did you hear we were going to war, Lief?" she asked. Behind his pipe in the shadows the grey faced figure of Lindstrum nodded. "George is a Senator," she added. "He's going to declare war, Lief. You remember my brother George." "Doris, you mustn't," Levine whispered. "Lie back, please." She covered her face and her body shuddered. "The filthy ones are going to war. Come closer, Lief. I want to see you." Lindstrum approached the bed. Doris turned to Levine. "The pack is going to war. Did you see their eyes shining in the street, and their mouths gloating? A new terror, eh?" She threw her hands into her hair and her eyes centered suddenly on Lindstrum. He was standing over her. Doris began to laugh and to climb out of bed. She stood up barefooted in her night gown, her black hair down and pointed out of the window. "Don't." Levine took her hand. "You'll catch cold." Her eyes were lustrous. Lindstrum caught her in his arms. She had leaned toward him as if she were falling. Her body was vividly hot. He held her and she began to laugh. "Better lie down," he whispered. The laugh grew louder. Her hand with its fingers extended and pointing, wavered toward the window. She tried to talk but the laughter in her throat prevented. She hung loosely in his arms, laughing and waving her hands. "The window," she gasped, "look out and see!" "We had better get her into bed," Levine whispered. Lindstrum nodded. But Doris pulled herself from his hold. She stumbled and fell to her knees before the window. The room was dark and the street lights threw a faint glare over her face. She knelt with her hands to her neck and her eyes swinging. "Look out!" cried Levine. Doris screamed. "The beast ... the beast!" She had thrown herself forward with the shriek but Lindstrum's hands had caught her. The window glass broke. The two men carried her into the bed. Her head fell back on the pillow. She lay with her eyes open. Lindstrum sat leaning over her. "Doris," he whispered. Her eyes regarded him without recognition. "It's happened," muttered Levine. Lindstrum's hand passed over her forehead and slipped down the loose hair. "The fever's gone," he said softly. "Yes," he repeated, "the fever's gone now." Mrs. Basine returned. Doris, her eyes open, was lying as if dead. Her mother rushed to the bed crying her name. She was breathing. The fever was gone. Her body was almost cool. "She was out of her head for a while," Lindstrum whispered. "Talk to me please, dearest." Doris sighed and looked around. They made no move as she sat up. She left the bed and returned from a closet with a wrap over her nightgown. They watched her until her eyes turned toward them—expressionless, dead eyes. Mrs. Basine clasped her hands together and trembled. "We must call the doctor at once," she whispered. She went to the telephone. Doris sat down in a chair near the window. Her head sank and she gazed out. The expressionless eyes grew clouded. Tears were coming out. She sat weeping without sound while her mother telephoned. "Something has happened to Doris," Mrs. Basine whispered into the telephone, "please hurry, something has happened to her...." "Good-bye, Doris," Lindstrum spoke. The white face of the girl remained without movement. She was staring out the window, a lifeless figure, weeping. He approached her and watched her tears. Outside, he walked with his head down, through the streets. "She knew it was going to happen," he murmured to himself, "and she wanted to see me again before it did." His heart felt heavy. Doris with her dead eyes weeping. Ah, a long sigh. Hard to remember things that had been. "Knock 'em over," he whispered aloud. "Make something ... make something." Deep inside him were hands that pantomimed despair. People in the streets. War was coming to them. "Huh," he said slowly, "they tore her heart out." Everybody knew him. Everybody knew the name Lindstrum. It was the name of a great poet. When he was dead Lindstrum would stay alive. "Huh," he whispered, "I don't know.... Sing to them. Yes...." His teeth bit into the pipe stem. Tears came from his eyes. He walked along in the night snarling with his lips parted, and weeping. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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