DR. PAUL CROSSETT
From her window, a few hours later, Lola could see her father as he
turned in from Eighth Avenue and walked briskly toward the house. With
him was a rather short, extremely animated, and perfectly groomed
gentleman, whom she at once knew to be Doctor Paul Crossett. Even from
that distance she could plainly see that, although she knew him to be
a man of her father's age, he had the look of one much younger.
It would be a bold man who would dare to state that married life and
the atmosphere of a home do more to bring about grey hairs and
wrinkles than the emptiness of a bachelor's existence, but in this
case, at least, the contrast was startling.
Paul Crossett, quite fifty, had, and looked to have, all the
enthusiasms of youth. He was a Frenchman, and to a close observer he
was perhaps rather freer in gesticulations than our somewhat stiff New
Yorkers, but he was far from being the Frenchman of the comic
supplement. Indeed, Paul Crossett was a real citizen of the world,
quite as much at home in New York, London or Berlin as he was in
Paris. He was one of the best known authorities on nervous disorders
in the medical world, besides being a surgeon of international
reputation. As he entered the room with her father a moment later,
Lola advanced to meet him with a smile, but, to her surprise, at the
sight of her he stopped, and a look of deep sorrow, almost of fear,
came into his face.
"This is Lola, Paul," said the Doctor proudly.
In a moment the look on Dr. Crossett's face changed to one of eager
welcome, and he stepped forward and took both of her extended hands in
his.
"You are as your mother was," he said gently, then as he stooped to
kiss her saying softly, "My age permits," she saw a tear on his
smooth, almost boyish cheek, and with a woman's quick intuition she
understood and loved him for the love he had had for her mother, whom
he had not seen since his early manhood, but whom he had never
forgotten, and never could forget.
[Illustration: E. M. KIMBALL AS DOCTOR CROSSET.]
In that moment grew up between those two an affection and an
understanding that under happier circumstances would have lasted all
their lives. In the awful time, now so rapidly approaching, he was to
be her truest friend. His love and sympathy was to outlast that of
lover and father. He gave to her the place in his heart that her
mother had always had, the same blind love and devotion, and it was
hers until the end.
"I am glad to know you, Doctor Crossett," said Lola, a little timidly,
as he stepped away from her, now smiling merrily.
"So," he replied heartily, as he looked around the room curiously.
"So! this is one of your famous New York apartments?"
"No, Paul," said Dr. Barnhelm, rather ruefully, "this is a flat."
"But what is the difference?"
"About a hundred dollars a month."
"But surely you are not poor, Martin, you, with your mind?"
"My dear Paul, it takes twenty-four hours a day to make a good living
here in New York, and I could not spare the time."
"I see," exclaimed Dr. Crossett, as his keen eyes fell upon the
complicated electrical apparatus on the table. "You had a better use
for it." He crossed and bent over the affair with deep professional
interest.
"So? A high frequency, a most peculiar and most powerful interrupter.
Not for the X-ray? No, then for what?"
"I am going to tell you all about it. There is no man in America, and
only one other in Europe, who could judge of it as you could judge. It
is ten years' work, Paul; it has meant poverty to both of us, but it
is a big thing."
"Tell me," said Dr. Crossett eagerly.
"Tell him, father," interrupted Lola, "while I run to the store. I
will only be a few moments, and you won't miss me. When I come back,
Doctor Crossett," she smiled at him frankly, "I am going to make you
explain to me all about it. Father never would."
She left them, in spite of Dr. Crossett's offers to accompany her, and
as the door closed behind her he stood for a moment looking after her,
and from her to a framed picture of her mother that hung on the wall.
"Nine years, Martin," he laid his slender, powerful hand gently on his
old friend's shoulder; "nine years since you wrote me that her
mother----"
They stood together for a moment in silence before the Doctor
answered: "Yes, Paul, nine years."
"I was with you in my heart," the Frenchman continued, "but,
tut--tut--! Come, you have discovered--what?"
As he turned away the bell rang, and with a word of excuse Dr.
Barnhelm stepped to the door and admitted John Dorris.
"Lola told me to wait for her here," said the young man cheerfully.
"She wouldn't let me go with her, to tell the truth; I am taking a
little holiday, and I don't quite know what to do with myself."
The Doctor turned to his friend, smiling.
"Each of us, Doctor Crossett, as we grow older accumulate troubles.
Will you let me present my worst, Mr. John Dorris?"
"I am pleased," said the Frenchman, bowing, "but shall I confess that
I do not understand?"
"I am going to marry Lola," said John frankly, as he stepped forward
and offered his hand.
"Ah! Now I do understand," responded Dr. Crossett. "Then Dr. Barnhelm
has my sympathy, and you my approval. You have at least, good taste."
"Thank you, Doctor--am I in the way?" inquired John, turning to Dr.
Barnhelm.
"Not at all. I was about to explain my pet hobby; as you will often
have to hear about it, it might be a good thing if you were to listen
now. I will spare you the technical description, John; you would not
understand, and you, Paul, are of course familiar with this apparatus.
This, then, is an instrument by which, if I am right, and I am
convinced that there is no doubt of that, I can restore life to a
person who has been dead for many hours."
"Doctor!" cried John, horrified and anxious; and he turned to Dr.
Crossett, expecting him to share in his belief that long hours of
brooding over his experiments had turned the old man's brain, but, to
his intense surprise, he read nothing but eager interest in the
Frenchman's face, as the latter bent over the instrument and inquired
earnestly: "Many hours, Martin?"
"Five," replied Dr. Barnhelm; "perhaps six, possibly seven!"
"That has not been claimed before?"
"I can do it."
"You can restore the dead to life?" demanded John with such disbelief
and distress in his voice that Dr. Crossett turned to him with a
kindly smile and said gently, "You need not look at your future
father-in-law in horror, my dear young friend. He is not mad. I have
studied these things, as perhaps you know. In Paris I have seen the
experiment tried. I have seen the heart action cease and later be
resumed. I have seen muscular activity stimulated and the patient,
whom I myself had pronounced dead, rise and walk unaided from the
operating room. But"--he stopped and for a moment eyed his old friend
keenly--"but only has this been done in my peculiar case, and never
more than five minutes after the last flutter of the pulse!"
"My theory is right," replied Dr. Barnhelm with deep conviction. "My
instrument is right! As yet I have been unable to demonstrate it upon
a human being for want of a subject, but I have succeeded always with
the lower animals."
"You claim what, Martin?" continued Dr. Crossett. "That you can
restore the heart action to those who die, of what?"
The Doctor smiled slightly as he replied:
"Death is what? When the heart ceases to beat! Life is what? When it
beats on, untroubled. I can take the body of a man whose pulse has not
fluttered in hours, and I can bring the beating of his heart back! I
can bring him back to life!"
He looked almost in triumph into the earnest, sympathetic face of his
friend, then turned to John, but his smile left him at what he saw in
the young man's eyes.
"Don't say that, Doctor," begged John, earnestly. "I can't believe
that it is true, and if it is, it is horrible!"
"I do not claim to _give_ life," explained the older man gently, "only
to restore it. For how long depends upon the nature of the disease of
which the patient dies. Old age must always have its victims. I cannot
check decay, nor cancer, nor tuberculosis. There are many cases where,
if I were to bring my patient back to life, it would be but to die
again, but there are many, many times when I can, and will, restore
life to those who die by accident, by drowning, by heart failure, by
shock!"
"It is sacrilege!" cried John in horror. "Suppose that a man dies, and
his body is brought to you. Do you claim that you will give him back
his life?"
"I do," answered the Doctor firmly.
"What of his soul?"
"John," exclaimed the doctor, startled and offended by the question.
"When a man dies," continued John earnestly, "more than the throbbing
of his pulse leaves him. The thing we call a soul, whatever it may be,
wherever it may be, goes out with his life, out of his body to a life
everlasting. In God's name, how dare you talk of bringing that empty
shell back into the living world?"
"I have lived for over twenty years in the dissecting room," remarked
Dr. Crossett, with rather a contemptuous smile. "I know the human
body. They differ very little, each organ has its place, all is
complete--I have not found a soul."
"We do not think alike there, Paul," said Dr. Barnhelm gravely. "There
is something, a soul, an intelligence, call it what you will, but it
is not tangible, and it is divine! I mean no sacrilege. Why, this
theory of mine, the truth of which I am prepared to prove, has been my
prayer, and now it has been granted. It is for the good of humanity."
"I don't like it," replied John nervously. "You know best, I suppose,
and I am going to try to take your word for it, but I don't like it.
If you don't mind, I'll go and meet Lola. It may be all right, I
suppose it is, if you say so, but it gives me the fidgets."
He left the room as he spoke, and as he closed the door and started
down the stairs he heard them laughing together.
"He is not a physician," said Dr. Crossett as soon as John was out of
hearing.
"No," replied Dr. Barnhelm. "He is a bank clerk."
"Bank clerk! La! Then why try to make him understand? Come, tell me
all about this," and he looked critically at the apparatus before him.
"It is the theory," began the Doctor, "of a tremendously interrupted
electrical current applied to the heart. The high frequency in itself
is not new."
"No," agreed Dr. Crossett. "Romanoff, Thailer, Woodstock, eh?"
"Yes, but the application is new, and also I have here a Mercury
Turbine Interrupter of my own invention. I can get over thirty
thousand more interruptions a second than were ever before obtained.
With it I have never once failed. It was the great high frequency by
which I won my battle. It is ready now to show to the world."
"Ah! Your theory--it is pretty."
"It is true."
"Then," exclaimed Dr. Crossett, "there need be no more of this." He
looked contemptuously around the shabby room and out through the
window at the noisy, squalid neighborhood.
"To live as New York lives! It is not civilization. It is like the
cave man, to live in a hole in a cliff. Bah! To sit on an ugly chair,
and to look at nothing, out of dirty windows!"
"New York," laughed Dr. Barnhelm, "is the great market place of the
world. You can buy anything here, even beautiful surroundings."
"Then you, Martin, shall buy them. This," he touched the electrical
apparatus almost tenderly, "will bring fame and wealth. Happiness you
had before."
"It has been selfish of me in a way, Paul," began the Doctor, as
though trying to find excuses to satisfy his own conscience, "but Lola
has not minded. She is as Helen was. If she is surrounded by love and
tenderness, she is content. She does not ask fortune for many of her
favors."
"She does not need them, Martin."
As Dr. Crossett spoke, from below, through the open window, came the
harsh clang of an ambulance bell, and these two surgeons both stopped
and listened, their professional instinct unconsciously aroused.
"There is a sound, Martin," he continued, "that is understood in every
country in the world."
"The ambulance stopped here at this house," said Dr. Barnhelm, with a
trace of nervousness, and he stepped to the window and looked out.
"There is a crowd collecting. I wonder----"
[Illustration: DOCTOR BARNHELM PERFECTS HIS MACHINE FOR RESTORING
ANIMATION.]
The door burst open, and John Dorris entered the room; as they saw his
face, they knew at once that the news he brought was bad news, and
both being brave men, they turned calmly and steadily to meet it.
"Doctor," he panted hoarsely, "Lola--Lola!"
"Well, John?"
It was the father who spoke, and his cool, even tone did much to
steady the boy.
"She," he continued brokenly, "she--they--they are bringing her! There
was an accident, she--she----" He stopped as Dick Fenway entered, so
pale and wild, that Dr. Crossett, to whom he was a stranger, stepped
forward, as though to offer to support him, but stopped suddenly as
Fenway cried out: "I did it! It was my fault! As she crossed the
Avenue I turned my car, thinking she would stop, but she hated me, and
she wouldn't stop, and--and--I killed her."
There was silence for a moment in the room, broken only by Fenway's
sobs and by a low moan of anguish from the father. Then came a sound
of stumbling footsteps, slowly, very slowly advancing up the stairs.
The sound of men carrying a heavy burden.
"My friend! Be brave!" and Paul Crossett put his arm about his old
friend's shoulders. "We will fight for her life, you and I together,
as life is not often fought for."
The footsteps had grown nearer, in the room there was silence as the
four men waited, in the court-yard below a street organ began to play,
and the foolish, empty tune burned itself forever into their memories
as they stood there.
The footsteps hesitated for a moment on the landing below, then began
again, nearer, louder now, and suddenly a big, red-faced policeman
stood in the doorway.
"Here?" he inquired, in that queer, impersonal voice that speaks of
long acquaintance with the tragedies of life.
"Yes," replied John, hoarsely, "here."
An ambulance surgeon entered in response to the officer's nod, and
following him came another policeman and a white-coated driver;
between them on a stretcher they bore a covered form, very quiet, so
quiet that not even a movement stirred the blanket that covered it.
As they put their burden down gently on the worn old couch the young
surgeon turned to Dr. Barnhelm, who stepped forward.
"It is no use, sir. You can't do anything. It was the heart, I think.
She was not crushed, but she died instantly. Can any of you give me
the facts for my report?"
Maria had entered the adjoining room, attracted by the unusual sounds,
and heard what he said, and as she heard she cried out pitifully. The
sound seemed to add the finishing touch to the strain they were under,
and they turned sharply.
"Go, Maria!" said the Doctor, coldly. "Answer any questions this
gentleman asks of you. Compose yourself, please, and go."
The girl turned without a word, and followed by the surgeon went out
into the hall, the driver and one of the policemen joining them, while
the other crossed and touched Dick Fenway on the arm.
"You'll have to come with me, sir," he said quietly.
Fenway for a moment looked at him bewildered, then stooped and picking
up the hat he had dropped on the floor, slowly walked to the door. At
the door he stopped and looked back at the covered figure on the
couch, shuddered and went out, the officer following.
John closed the door softly behind them and turned back to where the
two men stood, Paul Crossett's hand on the father's shoulder.
"Can't--can't you do anything," he questioned, "anything at all?"
"Wait!" The word came like a command, sharply, from Dr. Barnhelm's
lips. "Paul! You know what I am going to do?"
Dr. Crossett nodded slightly. The meaning of it came suddenly to John,
and he cried out in protest, "Doctor!"
"You see her there! Dead!" The father spoke slowly, calmly. "Well, I
can bring her back! She is my daughter." He turned quietly to John,
but with a look in his eyes that few men would have dared oppose.
"Shall I let her die? I--who can save her?"
"No," the young man spoke humbly, "no. I--I love her too."
"Go--wait outside. Go--now!" and John went with just one look at the
still form on the couch.
"I am ready, Martin," said Dr. Crossett, when they were alone, and he
threw off his coat and stepping to the table starting to connect the
batteries and adjust his instrument with the practical hand of an
expert. For just one moment the father faltered.
"It is only a theory, Paul. It may fail."
"We are here," replied his friend steadily, "to make that theory fact.
You must direct me. Call the interruptions as you want them."
The doctor crossed to the couch, and drawing aside the blanket stood
looking down at Lola. In that moment all that this child of his meant
to him came into his mind, and the thought gave him strength. The fear
and grief died, and in their place came firmness, confidence. He knelt
and deftly unfastened her dress and bared her girlish breast, then
crossing to the table took in each hand a glass electrode connected by
long wires to the powerful machine, and slowly returned to where his
daughter lay.
"Now, Paul!"
A touch of Dr. Crossett's practised hand and the great machine came to
life. Back and forth in the coil violet sparks jumped, flashing,
sparkling. From the electrodes in his strong hands a million tiny
specks of light sprang angrily, and when for a moment he held them
close together these specks became a solid bar of violet light, almost
a flame. The noise was deafening, the solid crash of the leaping
current, as Dr. Crossett gradually moved his index up to its full
strength, rang through the little room and echoed back from the walls,
the vibrations so close that to any but a practiced ear they sounded
like one steady roar.
Once again he paused beside the couch, and an electrode in each hand,
the violet light dancing all about him, he raised his eyes in a short
prayer. "God help me," he said, his voice half buried in the riot of
sound. "Don't hold my pride against me. I ask it, not as the inventor,
but as the father."
He did not speak again, nor did the friend who stood watchfully beside
the spluttering, crashing machine. Three times he held the electrodes
to her body, one over her heart, one against her back, but there was
no movement, no sign of life. The leaping sparks seemed to pass
through her tender frame, but she lay there still, with that awful
stillness of the dead. The man, working over her, the father no
longer, but the physician, the inventor, did not hesitate. Again and
again she was enfolded in the bright beams of violet light. Again and
again he held the leaping current to her heart, and at last, when, for
what seemed to be the hundredth time he drew back and looked at her,
his whole body suddenly stiffened, a hoarse cry burst from him, and he
fell crashing to the floor.
Dr. Crossett shut off the current and sprang to him. He had fainted,
and turning from him to Lola, Paul Crossett saw what the father had
seen. A soft color slowly stealing back into that white face and a
slow, steady rising and falling of her breast as her heart began again
to beat.