But she did not go to the telephone; not even to her father.  She brushed her hand upward vaguely, fending away the advancing blackness.  And then it would have been with her as with poor Miller that day at the Works, but that Charles Cooney, who had been watching her closely, was quick and strong.

     XXXIV

     In which to love much is to be much loved, and Kern’s
     Dearest Dream (but one) comes True.

Beyond the Great Gulf, there was news coming, too:  coming with the click of hoofs on cobble-stones, and the harsh clanging of a wagon; seeping and spreading through the shabby street with mysterious velocity.  Windows rattled up; a word flew from lip to lip; people were running.

There came the Reverend George Dayne, of the Charities, and hard behind him Labor Commissoner O’Neill, mopping his face as he ran.  These two were known to the neighborhood, with their right of going in, and no questions asked.  Out again came the ambulance surgeon, shaking his head jauntily at all inquiries.  Out lastly, after an interval, issued Mr. Pond, and disappeared into the establishment of Henry Bloom, who was known to have loaned his camp-chairs free, the day Doctor got up this here Settlement....

Then stillness enveloped all.  Nothing seemed to stir.  And no one could remember when he had seen those windows dark before.

Within, upstairs, the two men, alike only in this one tie, stood about, waiting; waiting for Pond’s return; waiting only because they were loath to go.  What little had been for their hands to do was done now.

The men of the yellow wagon, breathing hard as they came up the steps, had sought out the bedroom.  But Mr. Dayne said that a soldier should lie in his tent.  So they had made sure that the three-legged lounge in the office was steady, and got a fresh counterpane from red-lidded Mrs. Garland.  Then, when Pond was gone, the other two had thought to make ready against the arrival of Bloom.  However, they were soon brought to pause here, finding nothing to make ready with.  There was an overcoat hung in the clothes closet, but otherwise it was entirely bare; hangers dangling empty.  The men had found the sight somewhat sad.

But Mr. Dayne, who had been a parson before he was a Secretary, had said no matter.  Let him go in his patches upon his great adventure....

It had seemed natural to these two to be doing the last small services.  There was no family here; friends’ love was needed.  But now there was only waiting....

Mr. Dayne, in Canal Street in his own business, had been at the Heth Works in the first uproar.  At intervals, he had told the story to the others:  a story of one machine too many unloaded on a strained floor; of a dry beam breaking with a report like a cannon; of men and women stampeding in the wild fear that the building was about to collapse.  On the second floor, but two had kept their heads; and the young doctor, for all his bad foot, had been the quicker.  It was supposed that the base of the machine itself had struck him, glancing.  Mr. Heth, found two feet away, was buried by a litter of debris; his escape from death was deemed miraculous.  And when they brought him round, it was told that his first word had been:  “Vivian hurt?...”