THE WEAKENED HEART
THE rest of the day Roger spent in moping, fuming, and intermittent
attempts to divert himself by reading or work. Feeling wholly without
appetite, he did not go down to luncheon when the bell rang. As a
consequence Mr. Adams came up, inquired sympathetically about his
condition, and proposed to telephone for a physician. But a physician
was, at that moment, the last person that Roger desired to see; he could
not reconcile himself to the thought of submitting his dearly cherished
hopes to the decision of some bigoted foe of rowing who would condemn
him on principle and flatter himself that he had saved another body from
destruction. He had passed the Athletic Association doctor at the
beginning of the season; why was not that enough to satisfy his mother’s
requirement?
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” he said, avoiding Mr. Adams’s eye. “I’m
just a little off my feed. I shall be all right by to-night.”
“It’s always better to attend to these things at the outset,” rejoined
the teacher. “The doctor wouldn’t hurt you.”
“I don’t want him!” persisted Roger, fretfully. “He’d just stir me up.”
Mr. Adams observed him with curiosity. Here was a childish
unreasonableness which he had never before seen in Roger Hardie. “I’ll
wait till to-night, then. Isn’t there something Mrs. Adams or I could do
to make you more comfortable? Shouldn’t you like something to read, or
some one to read to you?”
Roger thanked him, but thought he should take a little nap and then
perhaps go for a walk. So Mr. Adams was induced to leave, and Roger lay
back on his couch, with eyes staring wide open and thoughts pounding
hard. He had staved off the doctor for a time at least.
As he lay there assuring himself that nothing could be the matter with
his heart and that he should certainly be quite well by night, reviling
himself for being such a fool as to fall ill on the eve of a race and
vowing that he would row anyway, Dunn came softly in on new rubber-soled
shoes. He was going to Cambridge to see the Harvard-Princeton game, but
before he went he wanted to express his sympathy and offer consolation.
Dunn did not use these trite expressions nor did he talk like a phrase
book of etiquette, but he meant well and Roger understood him. The
consolation took the form of a lurid, six weeks’ novel which Dunn
commended as “pretty fair.” An hour with this pretty fair tale of
Jason’s lending was about all Roger could stand; he threw it down gladly
when Mike appeared to invite him to go out and watch the game between
the Weary-Willies and the Easy-Resters which Mike was to umpire.
He fared forth, therefore, with Mike, and established himself at the
shady end of the players’ bench, prepared to be quietly amused. Dickie
Sumner thrust a sheet of paper and a pencil into his hand and bade him
keep score. It was a great game and most amusing, but totally devoid of
quiet. The Easy-Resters rested not at all, but tore up and down the foul
lines, jeering at the battery of their opponents and abusing the umpire.
The Weary-Willies answered unweariedly jeer for jeer. When, in the
middle of the fifth inning, the E-R’s assaulted Mike, and, sweeping him
off the field, dragged Roger out to take his place, the new umpire could
not for the life of him determine whether the score stood seven to six
in favor of the E-R’s or six to five for the W-W’s. So he left Mike to
continue the score after his own fashion, and devoted himself to
securing order on the diamond and enforcing his decisions by threats of
injury from the baseball bat with which he had armed himself.
The game was over, and the players were arguing noisily about the
score—Mike had made the E-R’s pay dearly for the violence offered to
the sacred person of the umpire—before Roger bethought himself of his
illness. He was apprised of it now by a sensation of faintness, and a
startling dizziness that fell upon him suddenly and for the moment
frightened him with the fear that he was the victim of one of the
“spells” to which, as he vaguely knew, people with weak hearts are
subject. But the fear was overborne by a fierce determination that
surged up in a defiant flood, insisting that the undesired was the
untrue. It was not his heart! His heart was as strong as any one’s,
whatever his father might fancy. He would not be ill, he would row! He
set his teeth and clenched his fists and steered his way straight for
the house. There he threw himself into a chair in the common room, and
taking up a paper, turned to the sports page, on which a reporter had
given his opinion as to the probable outcome of the schoolboy races.
Newbury was picked for first place, with a good fighting chance for
Bainbridge Latin,—both coached by Lanning. Westcott’s was the best of
the Caffrey crews, but did not look like a winner; the Back Bay boys
rowed in good form, but they lacked the power of the big men in the
other boats. While form was unquestionably an important element in the
success of a crew, mere style could never take the place of endurance
and strength.
So much Roger at last comprehended after several readings and with much
effort to control his trembling hands and wavering eyes. He put down the
paper in disgust, and resting his heavy head on his hand, mingled in a
dizzy confusion despairing self-reproach and genuine prayers for help.
The dizziness had worn off, but the weakness still remained, and the
consciousness of this weakness undermined the props of determination as
fast as they were set up. The boys were gathering for dinner; they threw
curious and not unsympathetic glances at the disconsolate figure in the
lounging chair, and talked in tones uncommonly subdued of the effect
Hardie’s illness would have on the chances of the crew. Presently Felton
came in from the long corridor, surveyed the room, and catching sight of
Hardie in the chair slapped him roughly on the shoulder.
Roger started and shot a menacing look at the offender. “What’s the
matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with _you_?” retorted Felton. “Pete wants you at the
telephone.”
Roger dragged himself to the telephone. “Is that you, Roger?” sounded
Talbot’s clear voice.
“Yes.”
“How are you? They told me this afternoon that you were under the
weather. You aren’t going to be sick, are you?”
“No, it’s all right. I’m better to-night.”
“That’s good. Be careful what you eat, and get to bed early. We can’t
afford to lose you. They assigned places this afternoon for the trials.
We got the outside.”
“That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. There won’t be any current to help us, and a head wind
would set us back a lot. They’re counting on our weakening at the
finish. They don’t know us. I’m not afraid of any weakening in the first
boat now that Pitkin is out.”
Roger groaned audibly. “What’s that?” asked Talbot.
“Where’s Newbury?” substituted Roger.
“Inside, next to the wall. Smithy got that arranged all right.”
“How does he come in?”
“How does he come into anything? Pulls wires and works his friends in
the B.A.A. He’ll be on the referee’s launch in some official capacity,
I’ll bet my head. I’m willing to let Newbury beat us in the trials, but
we must make second place so as to get into the finals. I should like to
save our strength as much as possible for the real thing. We ought to
find Brookfield High and Boston Latin pretty easy; they are the others
in our heat.”
“That’s right; our second could put it over either of them.”
“Well, take good care of yourself. Remember about eating and getting to
bed. Good-by.”
Roger hung up the receiver and returned to the common room. The talk
with Pete had put new life into him. Excited by the news and the
prospect, he thought of his illness only as something which he had
really left behind him, and which might be wholly disregarded. His
mother’s instruction as to the examination of his heart he would not
consider just now. There must be some way out of the dilemma. He must
row, whatever happened; on that he was determined.
The dining-room doors opened just as he came down the corridor, and
Roger went in with the first rush. Acting on the assumption that he was
well, and hungry from a day’s fasting, he fell to greedily. Soup, roast,
vegetables, pudding, fruit—he took them all, like any of the
perpetually hollow boys who called the food at Adams’s “bum,” yet
devoured it like cormorants. Mr. Adams was not at dinner; if he had been
there he must have marked with uneasiness the feverish glitter in
Roger’s eye and the abnormal convalescent’s appetite.
After dinner the company sallied forth to the playground, the younger
lads to indulge in a screaming game of scrub, the older ones to sit
round on the grass and watch Dunn trying to teach Cable to hold a
pitched ball. Dunn had declared that Cable should learn, and Cable had
declared that he couldn’t. In the contest Cable very clearly proved his
case—to Dunn’s disgust and the infinite amusement of the onlookers. The
sport terminated at half-past seven, when Jason, spying his tutor coming
across from the street, drove a particularly vicious in-curve at the
unfortunate Cable, who dodged the missile by an awkward sprawl, and
trudged submissively after it to the distant elm trees.
Roger followed Dunn into the house. For the last fifteen minutes a
sensation of approaching calamity had been growing upon him. The proud
spirit of defiance with which he had declared himself well had forsaken
him. His brain reeled under a dull, oppressive weight. The dinner which
he had so recklessly devoured seemed like a mass of hardening cement in
his stomach; his lips trembled, perspiration broke out on his forehead.
Utterly wretched, he dragged himself upstairs to his room and sank into
a chair by the open window.
“And you thought you could row!” he groaned. “You poor fool!”
And then he was sick, violently sick, with convulsions that shook his
whole frame, sending great throbs of pain crashing through his brain. He
dropped his clothes in a pile on the floor and crept into bed, where he
lay with cheek buried in the pillow, listening horrified to his own
heart beating “tub-up! tub-up! tub-up!” in his ear. There was no longer
any doubt of his condition. “It’s my heart!” he muttered wildly to
himself. “My heart has gone back on me. They knew more about it than I
did. I’m not fit to row!”
The head throbs subsided after a time, and Roger began to think. He
recalled certain occasions in his childhood when he had suffered from
sick headaches. His mother used to sit beside him then, holding his
hand, and, with her quiet, soothing presence, helping him to bear the
pain. He missed her now, terribly. He felt, too, that he had forfeited
his right to her ministrations; he had been disloyal to her, in intent
at least, when she had been steadfastly loyal to him. The very command
against which he had rebelled was proof of her sympathy, for it was the
result of her effort to save his rowing when his father would have
forbidden it out of hand. “She did her best for me,” he thought in keen
self-reproach, “and she trusted me, and I was going back on her. It’s
all up with the rowing now; I shall never sit in a boat again, but I’ll
have the examination if I ever get out of this, just to prove that I’m
what she thinks I am.”
This resolution brought him a certain composure. He ceased to mourn, and
presently fell asleep. The sun was already slanting down through his
open window when he awoke. Mr. Adams stood at the bedside.
“How do you feel this morning?” asked the master. “If sleep can cure
you, you ought to be well. You’ve slept over breakfast in spite of all
the noise.”
“I’m better,” answered Roger, who had profited by the interval to get
his bearings. “My head doesn’t ache any more, but I feel rather weak and
hollow.”
“We’ll send you up something to eat. What shall it be?”
“I think I’d better see a doctor before I eat anything,” replied the
boy, humbly. His attitude had changed over night.
Mr. Adams nodded approval to this sentiment. “That’s right. You ought to
have seen one yesterday. I’ll telephone for Dr. Brayton. In the meantime
I’ll have them send up a little toast. You can nibble on that if you
feel faint.”
The toast came, and Roger nibbled on it as long as it lasted. He felt
better, far better. The heart spell was evidently passing. Dunn came in
and sat on the bed for half an hour, telling a long tale of his tragedy
of hard work and not forgetting at its close to exhort the patient to
keep up his courage and get well before Wednesday. The exhortation drew
a strained smile to Roger’s face, such a smile as we assume to shield
from intruding eyes the knowledge of a hurt—and the hurt smarted long
after the complacent Jason had left the room.
Mike was the next visitor. He sat down with sober face in a chair
fronting the bed, and said nothing after his “Hello, Roger!” for some
time, though he stole occasional shy glances at his sad-eyed friend.
“Are you much sick?” he asked at length.
“I don’t know,” answered Roger. “The doctor will tell me when he comes.”
“Won’t it be terrible if you can’t row?” sighed the boy, his big eyes
soft with pity.
Roger squirmed. “It’ll be hard, of course, but if I can’t, I can’t.” He
tried to speak lightly, but the attempt was a failure.
There was silence again for a time. Mike looked obstinately down at the
cap which he was smoothing on his knee. Roger was thinking of his
condition and of the sacrifice which he was making. He felt so much
better this morning that had it not been for the fatal heart weakness,
he could have fancied himself within a few hours of complete recovery.
He should be like Trask, apparently perfectly well, but barred from
everything worth while—no more rowing, no more football, no more long
swims, or hard all-day tramps over the mountain peaks with the joy of
covering, between breakfast and supper, the score of steep miles which
the average tramper was happy to bring within the limits of two whole
days! Henceforth he must nurse himself and avoid over-exertion and be
content with golf or tennis, playing with girls, perhaps, or kids! What
a dreary, disgusting prospect!
“Pitkin shirks,” offered Mike, who had been pursuing his own train of
thought.
Roger stared for an instant without comprehension. Then, as he perceived
that practical Mike was worrying over the change in the first boat, he
answered hopefully, “He won’t shirk in the race; he’ll put in all he
has.”
“But he hasn’t the power.”
Before Roger could meet this objection, a knock was heard at the door.
As Mr. Adams came in with the doctor, Mike slipped away unnoticed. Dr.
Brayton sat down by the bedside, and in a very friendly, comrade-like
way asked the boy questions. Then he felt the patient’s pulse, looked at
his tongue, put the stethoscope to his chest, took his temperature.
Afterwards he drew out a little block in a neat leather case and wrote
on the top leaf certain mysterious words.
“What’s the matter?” asked Roger, with an anxious quaver in his voice.
“Over-eating and worry,” answered the doctor, laconically.
“Is it bad?”
The doctor smiled. “We shouldn’t call it a very serious case.”
“I mean my heart,” faltered Roger.
“Your heart! Have you had trouble with your heart?”
“No-o, but my father has a bad heart, and I could hear mine beat awfully
hard last night. I was afraid something was the matter with it.”
The doctor took up his instrument and again listened long and carefully.
Roger could feel his breath come and go with hurried, uneven pace as the
examination drew out. He was excited, anxious, shrinking from the truth
yet eager to know the worst. It seemed ten minutes before the doctor
folded up his stethoscope and returned it to his bag.
“What’s wrong with it?” demanded the boy, faintly, after waiting for
some seconds for the doctor to speak.
“Nothing. It’s perfectly normal.”
Roger gasped. “And it isn’t weak?”
“It’s as strong as a prize fighter’s. Your trouble is with the
digestion.”
“Shall I be laid up long?”
“Not if you obey directions. You’ll have to be careful for a day or
two.”
A wonderful change swept over the patient’s face. The dismal air of
resignation to an evil fate fell from him like a mask. His eyes flashed
bright with hope and eagerness. He popped into a sitting posture with a
quickness of recovery that would have delighted Caffrey’s heart, and
stretched out both hands toward the physician.
“Can I row on Wednesday? Oh, doctor, please say I can!”
Dr. Brayton laughed aloud. “Not if you act in that way. Lie down and
keep quiet, and do what you’re told.”
“I’ll do anything, starve or eat slops or lie here like a log till
Wednesday,” declared Roger, as he fell back again in obedience to
orders, “but you’ve got to make me well enough to row. You’ll do it,
won’t you?”
“We’ll see. Stay quietly in bed to-day, take only the nourishment which
I have ordered, and don’t get up to-morrow until I come. You must get
your strength back before you can think of rowing.”
For the rest of the day Roger lay in uneasy happiness, taking with
Fletcher-like deliberateness the sloppy messes that were brought to him,
receiving visitors as they drifted in after church, and kicking his legs
like a lusty infant. The burden of his despair had suddenly lifted as a
cloud cap lifts from a mountain peak and discloses miles of glorious,
sunny landscape that had seemed but a little before as hopelessly buried
in gloom as the peak itself. At times he could hardly restrain himself
from leaping forth from bed and dancing out his joy. In the afternoon,
when the fellows went off for walks, he took a nap; he awoke refreshed
and impatient to be moving. He obeyed his orders, however, helped out by
a book and the presence of various friendly souls who had time on their
hands and could talk indefinitely of nothing. At night he slept again
for long, unbroken hours.
In the morning the doctor came, looked him over, ordered a beefsteak for
his breakfast, and told him to go back to school. Roger ate the
beefsteak with the satisfaction of a hungry tramp who has chanced upon a
square meal after an experience of two days with dogs and crusts; but
before he left for school he slipped into the gymnasium and tried a
dozen strokes on the rowing machine.
It was all right; he was a little weak, but he could pull his old
stroke. He had two days in which to recover his strength.
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