AFTER THREE MONTHS.
The curtain falls and rises again after an interval of three months.
There have been some changes in our boarding-house. Prof. Poppendorf
still occupies his accustomed place, and so does Miss Blagden. The young
reporter still sits at my left, and entertains me with interesting
gossip and information about public affairs and public men with whom he
has come in contact.
But the young woman from Macy's has left us. She has returned to her
country home and is now the wife of her rustic admirer, Stephen Higgins.
I think she has done wisely. Life in the great stores is a species of
slavery, and she could save nothing from her salary. When Prof.
Poppendorf heard of her marriage, he looked depressed, but I noticed
that his appetite was not affected. A true Teuton seldom allows anything
to interfere with that.
Mrs. Gray has received two or three notes from the Countess di Penelli.
They treated of business matters solely. Whether she has discovered that
her husband's title is spurious I cannot tell. I hear, however, from a
drummer who is with us at intervals, that she is keeping a
boarding-house on Spring Garden street, and that her title has been the
magnet that has drawn to her house many persons who are glad in this way
to obtain a titled acquaintance.
As for myself I am on the high road to a comfortable income. I was
fortunate enough to give my rich patient so much relief that I have
received the large check he promised me, and have been recommended by
him to several of his friends. I have thought seriously of removing to
a more fashionable neighborhood, but have refrained--will it be
believed?--from my reluctance to leave the Disagreeable Woman. I am
beginning to understand her better. Under a brusque exterior she
certainly possesses a kind heart, and consideration for others. Upon
everything in the shape of humbug or pretension she is severe, but she
can appreciate worth and true nobility. In more than one instance I have
applied to her in behalf of a poor patient, and never in vain.
Yet I am as much in the dark as ever as to her circumstances and
residence. Upon these subjects I have ceased, not perhaps to feel, but
to show any curiosity. The time was coming, however, when I should learn
more of her.
One day a young girl came to my office. Her mother kept a modest lodging
house on West Eleventh street, and she had been my patient.
"Any one sick at home, Sarah?" I asked.
"No, doctor, but we have a lodger who is very low with a fever. I think
he is very poor. I am afraid he cannot pay a doctor, but mother thought
you would be willing to call."
"To be sure," I said, cheerfully, "I will be at your house in an hour."
An hour found me ringing at the door of Mrs. Graham's plain lodging
house.
"I thought you would come, Dr. Fenwick," said the good woman, who
personally answered the bell. "You come in good time, for poor Mr.
Douglas is very sick."
"I will follow you to his room."
He occupied a small room on the third floor. It was furnished in plain
fashion. The patient, a man who was apparently nearing fifty, was
tossing restlessly on his bed. Poorly situated as he was, I could see
that in health he must have been a man of distinguished bearing.
Poverty and he seemed ill-mated.
"Mr. Douglas," said the landlady, "this is Dr. Fenwick. I took the
liberty of calling him, as you are so ill."
The sick man turned upon me a glance from a pair of full, black eyes.
"Dr. Fenwick," he said, sadly, "I thank you for coming, but I am almost
a pauper, and I fear I cannot pay you for your services."
"That matters little," I replied. "You need me, that is enough. Let me
feel your pulse."
I found that he was in a high fever. His symptoms were serious. He
looked like a man with a constitution originally strong, but it had been
severely tried.
"Well?" he asked.
"You are seriously ill. I am not prepared just now with my diagnosis,
but I can tell better in a day or two."
"Shall I be long ill?" he asked.
"It will take time to recover."
"Shall I recover?" he asked, pointedly.
"We will hope for the best."
"I understand. Don't think I am alarmed. Life has few charms for me. My
chief trouble is that I shall be a burden to you and Mrs. Graham."
"Don't think of me, I have a fair practise, but I have time for you."
"Thank you, doctor. You are very kind."
"Let me put down your name," I said, taking down my tablets.
"My name is Philip Douglas."
I noted the name, and shortly left him.
I felt that in his critical condition he ought to have a nurse, but
where was the money to come from to pay one?
"He is no common man," I reflected. "He has been rich. His personal
surroundings do not fit him."
Somehow I had already come to feel an interest in my patient. There was
something in his appearance that set me wondering what his past could
have been.
"It must have been his misfortune, not his fault," I decided, for he
bore no marks of dissipation.
Under favorable circumstances I felt that I could pull him through, but
without careful attendance and generous living there was great doubt.
What should I do? I decided to speak of his case to the Disagreeable
Woman.