In Suite A, Herman Medfield had eaten the last of his breakfast. It
might almost be said that, sitting in the window with the paper spread
before him and the sun shining in, he had enjoyed his breakfast.... It
was a long time since Herman Medfield had eaten a complete breakfast
served in the ordinary way. The road to the House of Mercy was strewn
with a vast wreckage of fads and hopes and breakfast foods. There were
long vegetarian streaks that excluded milk and eggs; and gusts of
Fletcherizing--chewing wind hopefully and patiently; and there were wide
negative deserts--forbidden fruits--no starches-and-sweets together, no
sweets-and-acids, no potato-and-meat, no proteids-and-carbons. A long,
weary, hopeless watching and coaxing of gastric juices, and infinite
patience and cunning toward the vagaries of indigestion. He had "rolled
the stomach gently," and he had lain with "a pillow under his back and
head down." He had become a finical, peripatetic amphitheatre of
constant, cautious experiment and investigation. And it had brought him
at last to Suite A and the sunny window.
And now in a breath, it seemed, in the Berkeley House of Mercy Aunt
Jane's touch had broken the habit of years. He felt like a very small
boy, who has been taken up and set down gently in his chair--and told to
eat his breakfast and keep still.
He had thrown caution to the winds and had eaten like a hungry human
being. He had drunk great swallows of the delicious brown coffee--with
cream and sugar in it--without a thought of diluted gastric juice, or
secretions, or fads, or fermentations.... He felt almost well as he ate
the last of his toast and read his paper and basked in the sunny quiet.
And behind it all was a sense of security and protection; no telephone
could get at him, no clicking of the tape could reach his ear and set
his tired brain to work.
So he had finished his breakfast and read his paper and had been almost
happy.
But now he had read the paper through three times, gleaning last scanty
bits of news; he had opened the elaborate writing-desk across the room
and investigated the neat assortment of pens and blotters and paper and
ink--each sheet with its neatly stamped heading of the House of Mercy;
and he was feeling a little bored.
He stood looking down at the desk and fingering the keys in his pocket.
Then he went over and stood by the window and looked out, and turned
away and paced the room once or twice, fingering absently at the keys in
his pocket. He wondered whether perhaps his breakfast had not been a
little heavy, after all--two eggs for a man who had been dieting!
And all the time his restless fingers--whether thrust deep in the
pockets of his black velvet coat, or twisting a little as he walked, or
jingling the keys--were rolling imaginary cigarettes and reaching toward
a swiftly struck match--and the fragrant in-drawn breath of smoke.
It had not occurred to him when Dr. Carmon had told him that he would
probably have to undergo an operation and that he must have him at the
House of Mercy for a few days to watch the case--it had not occurred to
Herman Medfield that he would be a prisoner in the House of Mercy.
He stepped impatiently to the window and looked out again and shrugged
his shoulders.... It was all very well to have an operation--very likely
he did need something of the sort.... But this coming beforehand and
being shut up by himself--while his machinery was going, full tilt--all
this fuss was ridiculous!... Down in the yard a maid was hanging out
clothes; he watched her strong arms lift the wet sheets and swing them
to the line; the wind blew her hair a little.... It was more than likely
it was largely for effect--this having him come beforehand and shutting
him up like a prisoner in a cell, and taking away his tobacco--it was
more than likely that it was all for effect. Herman Medfield knew most
things that could be known about advertising and about the value of
advertising methods.... It might very well be a good card for the
hospital and for Dr. Carmon to have him there, and to get the
advertising that would come from having it known. The reporters were
sure to get hold of it.... It flitted across his mind that there might
be an interview.... It was years since Herman Medfield had granted an
interview. But even a reporter would relieve the monotony a little. He
glanced at his watch and felt a little cheered at the thought of the
reporter.
Then something occurred to him. He wondered whether the efficient
Person, who seemed to have charge of the Berkeley House of Mercy, would
_allow_ him to see a reporter!... He had eaten his breakfast--and, on
the whole, he felt better for it--the eggs seemed to be taking care of
themselves after all.... He foresaw that for the next three or four
weeks he was not going to do what he chose, but what the Person thought
best for him. Then his sense of humor came to the rescue. He recalled
the cap strings--and smiled.
It would not be such bad sport, matching one's wits against the cap
strings.... But there was still the morning to get through!
He wandered across and stopped again by the elaborate writing-desk and
looked at it. He might write to some one. He sat down and drew a sheet
of paper toward him and looked at the neatly cut inscription across the
top--"The Berkeley House of Mercy"--his prison cell, he thought grimly.
His fingers reached out for a half-smoked cigar--and drew back and
smoothed the paper thoughtfully and took up the pen and dipped it in the
ink and waited.
He would write to Julian. He had not written to Julian in his own
handwriting--not since the boy was a pupil at Exeter--that was ten years
ago.... He was his own secretary those days.
He wrote: "My dear Julian." Then he waited. He was seeing Julian as he
used to look when he was at Exeter; he had been such a fresh,
clear-faced boy; he had been proud of him--and Julian's mother.... The
millionaire was living over those first days of life together--the time
when Julian was born--he had not thought of it for years--all her pretty
ways in the house--and the garden he had made for her, and her coming to
meet him when he came from the office at night.... And then the days
when she had seemed to fade like a flower and they had carried her out
of the house--and there had been no one but the boy to come running to
meet him when he came home-- But the boy had hurt him and he had sent
him away ... and the loneliness since.... The empty house at night, and
the great void spaces of life that opened on every side. He had thrown
gold into them--and he had reached out for more gold--great heaped-up
masses of gold and bonds and thrifty investments; and the gold had
mounted higher every year--till it seemed to shut him off from every
one.... No one came to him now except for money--or about money. Even
Julian hardly wrote except to ask for a check or to acknowledge one. And
he only knew the boy's address through his bankers.... It was somewhere
on the Riviera, the last time. He dipped the pen again in the ink.
There was a knock at the door and he turned. It was Miss Canfield, the
nurse who had been assigned him. She carried a long, light box. She held
it out.
"Some flowers for you."
He reached up his hand, half pleased. He had not expected any one would
send flowers to him.
She undid the wrapper and handed him the box.... On the top lay a card
edged in black. He put on his eye-glasses and took it up.
"Mrs. Cawein----"
His face fell a little. She was his partner's wife--his late partner's
widow, that is--she had a right to send flowers to him, of course--if
she chose.
He set the box down on the desk and took up his pen. The nurse brought a
large vase and placed it beside him and arranged the flowers. They were
huge yellow roses, with long stems and crisp leaves--a kind of
salmon-pink yellow. Herman Medfield glanced at them grudgingly. It
seemed to him they were a singularly displeasing color. He had not
supposed there were any roses of that shade of yellow! He grew roses
himself, and he knew something about them. He shrugged his shoulder a
little toward them and took up the pen.
"Put them somewhere else," he said irritably.
A little clear color flushed up in her face. "Would you like them on the
table?" she asked.
"Yes--please."
She removed the vase and placed it on the table across the room and went
out.
He stared at the heading on the paper: "My dear Julian." After all, what
was there he could say to the boy? He could tell him he was in a
hospital. But that might seem weak--as if he wanted sympathy--because he
was down.... Herman Medfield never asked for sympathy; his heart was
especially hard toward men who did. They were always the devils who were
down and out--that asked for sympathy--and hoped to get some of his
money to waste--as they had wasted their own. He would give hundreds to
a man who stood up to him--when he would not give a dollar to the one
that whined.
He dipped the pen again and wrote rapidly--a mere note, telling the boy
that he was away from home for a while--under the doctor's orders,
nothing serious, nothing to worry any one; he should be around again in
a few days. He signed it grimly and hunted up the banker's address and
directed and sealed it.... That was done! He pushed the letter from him.
He was tired. He wanted a cigar.
There was a quick knock at the door. Dr. Carmon had finished his
operation and made his round of visits in the hospital and he was doing
Suite A.
Herman Medfield greeted him with relief. "Come in," he said. "Come in
and sit down.... I am sorry I cannot offer you a cigar," he added with a
little humorous sigh.