THE ONLY SAFE PLACE
When Red Pepper Burns visited James Van Horn, at the hospital, on the
evening before the operation, he found him lying quietly in bed, ready
for the night--and the morning. He looked up and smiled the same
slightly frosty smile Burns knew so well, but which he now interpreted
differently. As he sat down by the bedside the younger man's heart was
unbelievably warm.
He looked straight, with his powerful hazel eyes slightly veiled by a
contraction of the eyelids, into the steady gray eyes of his
patient--his patient--he could not believe it yet. He laid exploring
fingers upon the pulse of the hand he had just grasped.
"If they were all like you," he said gently, "we should have better
chances for doing our best. How do you manage it, Doctor?"
"Temperament, I suppose," returned the other lightly. "Or"--and now he
spoke less lightly--"belief--or lack of it. If we get through--very
well; I shall go on with my work. If we don't get through--that ends
it. I have no belief in any hereafter, as you may know. A few years more
or less--what does it matter?"
Burns studied the finely chiselled face in silence for a minute, then he
spoke slowly: "It matters this much--to me. If by a chance, a slip, a
lack of skill, I should put an end to a life which would never live
again, I could not bear it."
Van Horn smiled--and somehow the smile was not frosty at all. "I am
trusting you. Your hand won't slip; there will be no lack of skill. If
you don't pull me through, it will be because destiny is too much for
us. To be honest, I don't care how it comes out. And yet, that's not
quite true either. I do care; only I want to be entirely well again. I
can't go on as I have gone."
"You shall not. We're going to win; I'm confident of it. Only--Doctor,
if the unforeseen should happen I don't want you to go out of this life
believing there's no other. Listen." He pulled out a notebook and
searching, found a small newspaper clipping. "A big New York paper the
other day printed this headline: '_Fell Eight Stories to Death_.' A
smaller city paper copied it with this ironical comment: '_Headlines
cannot be too complete. But what a great story it would have been if he
had fallen eight stories to life!_' And then one of the biggest and
most influential and respected newspapers in the world copied both
headlines and comment and gave the whole thing a fresh title: '_Falls to
Life--Immortal_.' Doctor--you can't afford to lie to-night where you
do--and take chances on that last thing's not being true. The greatest
minds the world knows believe it is true."
A silence fell. Then Van Horn spoke: "Burns, do you think it's wise to
turn a patient's thoughts into this channel on the eve of a crisis?"
Burns regarded him closely. "Can you tell me, Doctor," he asked, "that
your thoughts weren't already in that channel?"
"Suppose they were. And suppose I even admitted the possibility that you
were right--which, mind you, I don't--what use is it to argue the
question at this late hour?"
"Because the hour is not too late. If you want to sleep quietly to-night
and wake fit for what's coming, put yourself in the hands of the Maker
of heaven and earth before you sleep. Then, whether there's a hereafter
or not won't matter for you; you'll leave that to Him. But you'll be in
His hands--and that's the only place it's safe to be."
"Suppose I told you I didn't believe in any such Being."
"I should tell you you knew better--and knew it with every fibre of
you."
The two pairs of eyes steadily regarded each other. In Burns's flamed
sincerity and conviction. In Van Horn's grew a curious sort of
suffering. He moved restlessly on his pillow.
"If I had known you were a fanatic as well as a fighter I might have
hesitated to call you, even though I believe in you as a surgeon," he
said somewhat huskily.
"It's surgery you're getting from me to-night, but I cut to cure. A mind
at rest will help you through to-morrow."
"Why should you think my mind isn't at rest? You commended me for my
quiet mind when you came in."
"For your cool control. But your unhappy spirit looked out of your eyes
at me, and I've spoken to that. I couldn't keep silence. Forgive me,
Doctor; I'm a blunt fellow, as you have reason to know. I haven't liked
you, and you haven't liked me. We've fought each other all along the
line. But your calling me now has touched me very much, and I find
myself caring tremendously to give you the best I have. And not only the
best my hands have to give you, but the best of my brain and heart. And
that belief in the Almighty and His power to rule this world and other
worlds is the best I have. I'd like to give it to you."
He rose, his big figure towering like a mountain of strength above the
slender form in the bed.
Van Horn stretched up his hand to say good-night. "I know you thought it
right to say this to me, Burns," he said, "and I have reason to know
that when you think a thing is right you don't hesitate to do it. I like
your frankness--better than I seem to. I trust you none the less for
this talk; perhaps more. Do your best by me in the morning, and whatever
happens, your conscience will be free."
Burns's two sinewy hands clasped the thin but still firm one of Van
Horn. "As I said just now, I've never wanted more to do my best than for
you," came very gently from his lips. "And I can tell you for your
comfort that the more anxious I am to do good work the surer I am to do
it. I don't know why it should be so; I've heard plenty of men say it
worked just the other way with them. Yes, I do know why. I think I'll
tell you the explanation. The more anxious I am the harder I pray to my
God to make me fit. And when I go from my knees to the operating-room I
feel armed to the teeth."
He smiled, a brilliant, heart-warming smile, and suddenly he looked, to
the man on the bed who gazed at him, more like a conqueror than any one
he had ever seen. And all at once James Van Horn understood why, with
all his faults of temper and speech, his patients loved and clung to Red
Pepper Burns; and why he, Van Horn himself, had not been able to defeat
Burns as a rival. There was something about the man which spoke of
power, and at this moment it seemed clear, even to the skeptic, that it
was not wholly human power.
Burns bent over the bed. "Good-night, Doctor," he said softly, almost as
he might have spoken to a child. Then, quite as he might have spoken to
a child, he added: "Say a bit of a prayer before you go to sleep. It
won't hurt you, and--who knows?--even unbelieving, you may get an
answer."
Van Horn smiled up at him wanly. "Good-night, Doctor," he replied.
"Thank you for coming in--whether I sleep the better or the worse for
it."
* * * * *
If there were anything of the fanatic about Redfield Pepper Burns--and
the term was one which no human being but Van Horn had ever applied to
him--it was the fighting, not the fasting, side of his character which
showed uppermost at ten next morning. He came out of his hospital
dressing-room with that look of dogged determination written upon brow
and mouth which his associates knew well, and they had never seen it
written larger. From Doctor Buller, who usually gave the anesthetics in
Burns's cases, and from Miss Mathewson, who almost invariably worked
upon the opposite side of the operating table, to the newest nurse whose
only mission was to be at hand for observation, the staff more or less
acutely sensed the situation. Not one of those who had been for any
length of time in the service but understood that it was an unusual
situation.
That James Van Horn and R.P. Burns had long been conscious or
unconscious rivals was known to everybody. Van Horn was not popular with
the hospital staff, while Burns might have ordered them all to almost
any deed of valour and have been loyally obeyed. But Van Horn's standing
in the city was well understood; he was admired and respected as the
most imposing and influential figure in the medical profession there
represented. He held many posts of distinction, not only in the city,
but in the state, and his name at the head of an article in any
professional magazine carried weight and authority. And that he should
have chosen Burns, rather than have sent abroad for any more famous
surgeon, was to be considered an extraordinary honour indicative of a
confidence not to have been expected.
Altogether, there was more than ordinary tension observable in the
operating-room just before the appointed hour. A number of the city's
surgeons were present--Grayson, Fields, Lenhart, Stevenson--men
accustomed to see Burns at work and to recognize his ability as
uncommon. Not that they often admitted this to themselves or to one
another, but the fact remains that they understood precisely why Van
Horn, if he chose a local man at all--which of itself had surprised them
very much--had selected Burns. Not one of them, no matter how personally
he felt antagonistic to this most constantly employed member of the
profession, but would have felt safer in his hands in such a crisis than
in those of any of his associates.
Burns held a brief conference with Miss Mathewson, who having been with
him in his office and his operative work for the entire twelve years of
his practice, was herself all but a surgeon and suited him better than
any man, with her deft fingers and sure response to his slightest
indication of intention. The others found themselves watching the two as
they came forward, cool, steady, ready for the perfect team work they
had so long played. If both hearts were beating a degree faster than
usual there was nothing to show it. Nobody knew what had passed between
the two. If they had known they might have understood why they worked so
perfectly together.
"You're going to give me your best to-day, Amy, eh?"
"You know that, Doctor Burns."
"Of course I know it. But I want a little better than your best. This is
one of the cases where every second is going to count. We have to make
all the speed that's in us without a slip. I can trust you. I didn't
tell you before because I didn't want you thinking about it. But I tell
you now because I've got to have the speed. All right; that's all."
He gave her one quick smile, then his face was set and stern again, as
always at this moment, for it was the moment when he caught sight of his
patient, quietly asleep, being brought to him. And it was the moment
when one swift echo of the prayer he had already made upon his knees
leaped through his mind--to be gone again as lightning flashes through a
midnight sky. After that there was to be no more prayer, only action.
* * * * *
The watching surgeons unconsciously held their breath as the operation
began. For the patient on the table was James Van Horn, and the man who
had taken Van Horn's life into his hands was not a great surgeon from
New York or Boston, as was to have been anticipated, but their everyday
colleague Burns. And at that moment not one of them envied him his
chance.
Ellen had seldom waited more anxiously for the word her husband always
sent her at such times. He fully recognized that the silent partner in
crises like these suffered a very real and trying suspense, the greater
that there was nothing she could do for him except to send him to his
work heartened by the thought of her and of her belief in him.
It was longer than usual, on this more than ordinarily fateful morning,
before Ellen received the first word from the hospital. When it came it
was from an attendant and it was not reassuring:
"Doctor Burns wishes me to tell you that the patient has come through
the operation, but is in a critical condition. He will not leave him at
present."
This meant more hours of waiting, during which Ellen could set her mind
and hand to nothing which was not purely mechanical. She was realizing
to the full that it was the unknown factor of which Burns had often
spoken, the unforeseen contingency, which might upset all the
calculations and efforts of science and skill. Well she knew that,
though her husband's reputation was an assured one, it might suffer
somewhat from the loss of this prominent case. Ellen felt certain that
this last consideration was one to weigh little with Burns himself
compared with his personal and bitter regret over an unsuccessful effort
to save a life. But it seemed to her that she cared from every point of
view, and to her the time of waiting was especially hard to bear.
There was one relief in the situation--never had she had her vigils
shared as Jordan King was sharing this one. As the hours went by, both
by messages over the telephone and by more than one hurried drive out to
see Ellen in person, did he let her know that his concern for Burns's
victory was only second to her own.
"He's got to save him!" was his declaration, standing in her doorway,
late in the evening, hat in hand, bright dark eyes on Ellen's. "And the
way he's sticking by, I'm confident he will. That bull-dog grip of his
we know so well would pull a ton of lead out of a quicksand. He won't
give up while there's a breath stirring, and even if it stops he'll
start it again--with his will!"
"You are a loyal friend." Ellen's smile rewarded him for this blindly
assured speech, well as she knew how shaky was the foundation on which
he might be standing. "But the last message he sent was only that no
ground had been lost."
"Well, that's a good deal after ten hours." He looked at his watch.
"Keep a brave heart, Mrs. Burns. I'm going to the hospital now to see if
I can get just a glimpse of our man before we settle down for the night.
And I want to arrange with Miss Dwight--she was my nurse--to let me know
any news at any hour in the night."
It was at three in the morning that King called her to say with a ring
of joy in his voice: "There's a bit of a gain, Mrs. Burns. It looks
brighter."
It was at eight, five hours later, that Burns himself spoke to her. His
voice betrayed tension in spite of its steadiness. "We're holding hard,
Len; that's about all I can say."
"Dear--are you getting any rest?"
"Don't want any; I'm all right. I'll not be home till we're out of this,
you know. Good-bye, my girl." And he was gone, back to the bedside. She
knew, without being told, that he had hardly left it.
Thirty-six hours had gone by, and Ellen and Jordan King had had many
messages from the hospital before the one came which eased their anxious
minds: "Out of immediate danger." It was almost another thirty-six
before Burns came home.
She had never seen him look more radiantly happy, though the shadows
under his eyes were heavy, and there were lines of fatigue about his
mouth. Although she had been watching for him he took her by surprise
at last, coming upon her in the early morning just as she was descending
the stairs. With both arms around her, as she stood on the bottom stair,
he looked into her eyes.
"The game's worth the candle, Len," he said.
"Even though you've been burning the candle at both ends, dear? Yes, I
know it is. I'm so glad--so glad!"
"We're sworn friends, Van and I. Can you believe it? Len, he's simply
the finest ever."
She smiled at him. "I'm sure you think so; it's just what you would
think, my generous boy."
"I'll prove it to you by and by, when I've had a wink of sleep. A bath,
breakfast, and two hours of rest--then I'll be in service again. Van's
resting comfortably, practically out of danger, and--Len, his eyes
remind me of a sick child's who has waked out of a delirium to find his
mother by his side."
"Is that the way his eyes look when they meet yours?"
He nodded. "Of course. That's how I know."
"O Red," she said softly--"to think of the eyes that look at you like
that!"
"They don't all," he answered as the two went up the stairs side by
side. "But Van--well, he's been through the deep waters, and he's
found--a footing on rock where he expected shifting sands. Ah, there's
my boy! Give him to me quick!"
The Little-Un, surging plumply out of the nursery, tumbled into his
father's arms, and submitted, shouting with glee, to the sort of
huggings, kissings, and general inspection to which he was happily
accustomed when Burns came home after a longer absence than usual.
Just before he went back to the hospital, refreshed by an hour's longer
sleep than he had meant to take, because Ellen would not wake him
sooner, Burns opened the pile of mail which had accumulated during his
absence. He sat on the arm of the blue couch, tossing the letters one by
one upon the table behind it, in two piles, one for his personal
consideration, the other for Miss Mathewson's answering. Ellen, happily
relaxing in a corner of the couch, her eyes watching the letter opening,
saw her husband's eyes widen as he stooped to pick up a small blue paper
which had fallen from the missive he had just slitted. As he unfolded
the blue slip and glanced at it, an astonished whistle leaped to his
lips.
"Well, by the powers--what's this?" he murmured. "A New York draft for a
thousand dollars, inclosed in a letter which says nothing except a
typewritten '_From One of the most grateful of all grateful patients_.'
Len, what do you think of that? Who on earth sent it? I haven't had a
rich patient who hasn't paid his bill, or who won't pay it in due form
when he gets around to it. And the poor ones don't send checks of this
size."
"I can't imagine," she said, studying the few words on the otherwise
blank sheet, and the postmark on the typewritten envelope, which showed
the letter also to have come from New York. "You haven't had a patient
lately who was travelling--a hotel case, or anything of that sort?"
He shook his head. "None that didn't pay before he left--and none that
seemed particularly grateful anyhow. Well, I must be off. The thousand's
all right, wherever it came from, eh? And I want to get back to Van. I'd
put that draft in the fire rather than go back to find the slightest
slip in his case. I think, if I should, I'd lose my nerve at last."