BALM
Clear and still as one of those miniature landscapes enclosed in a
crystal ball, Central Park shimmered all snow and sunshine. Goaded by
torturing thoughts, Claire trudged stoically forward. Behind her,
mincing carefully upon the crisp carpet of snow followed Bébé, shivering
but dutiful. It was Sunday and the path was crowded by eager people;
skates clanging metallically from their arms, faces rosy from the cold.
Unmindful of the titters called forth by Bébé's diminutive size and
enormous dignity, Claire passed through the throng unawares. It seemed
scarcely possible that it was only last night she had taken Mrs.
Schuyler to Alexis. So endless had seemed the intervening hours, so
weighted with tragedy. Then this morning had come the ultimatum from the
doctor, communicated briskly over the telephone by the cool voice of the
nurse. Mr. Petrovskey was decidedly better, but she and his mother were
requested not to attempt to see him for several days, as all undue
excitement would be extremely bad, not to say dangerous to the patient
in his present condition. That was all. Not a word had been said about
Mrs. Schuyler or whether Alexis was yet aware of her presence. And
Claire had not cared to ask. Bitter intuition flooded her, creating a
succession of images, distorted, exaggerated, but fundamentally true.
Anne sitting by Alexis, smoothing his pillow; holding his hand, flooding
his being with the subtle magnetism of her beauty. Images constantly
unwinding themselves, like the reels in a cinematic film. Until Claire's
nerves were raw and writhing. Half-maddened, she had thrown on hat and
coat, and with Bébé in her stormy wake, had gone to the park. It was the
stereotyped, daily walk, and yet as usual the crisp air, the glittering
sunshine undefinably assuaged her shrieking nerves.
"Hey, lady, stop a minute!"
Heedless of the peremptory voice at her elbow, Claire walked on.
"Say, stop there, you lady with the pup!"
The finger of authority upon her arm, Claire turned about in
astonishment.
"Were you speaking to me?" she inquired in amazement of the burly
policeman at her side.
"I wuz!" The tone was highly ironic. "How about the muzzle?"
"Oh," Claire suddenly understood. "Why, I thought he was too small to
need a muzzle. Besides, he has hardly any teeth left anyhow!"
The policeman smiled sarcastically.
"That's the same old gag! They never has any teeth. Not till they bite
some uppish old geezer, and a feller like me loses his job for lettin'
'em loose on the street! Name? Address?" He took out a small book and
looked at Claire ferociously.
Her indifference scarcely rippled, Claire was about to comply, when a
man crossed the street and interposed himself between them.
"What's the matter, Bill? Afraid the flea'll bite you?" exclaimed a
jocular voice. "Here, take this, that's good medicine for flea bites. I
ought to know, I'm a doctor. Am I not, Mrs. Petrovskey?"
The man wheeled and Claire found herself looking up into the amused face
of Dr. Elliott.
"Why, it's you!" Her eyes were wide with surprise.
"You thought I was trying to pick you up, didn't you?" laughed the young
doctor. "Well, I am! My car is across the street. Come on, it's a
perfect day for a drive!" He nodded gayly to the policeman, who was
pocketing his medicine in mollified silence. A hand beneath Claire's
arm, he started to pilot her through the traffic.
She hesitated on the curb, looking up at him in plaintive terror. His
professional eye noted her pallor and the wistful rings about the dark
eyes.
"But I don't think I'd better," stammered Claire. "I--I came out for a
walk, you know. You--you wanted me to walk!"
"What a timid little lady! I shan't run away with you. Won't you change
your mind, please? It's such a wonderful day and I'm all alone in the
big city. I promise not to be ogreish!"
The dawn of a smile broke the tightened line of her lips.
"Well, if you're lonely?" she conceded. "It would be selfish of me not
to, wouldn't it?"
He looked down upon her in surprise. Why, the girl looked almost pretty.
If she wouldn't wear such awful hats, and had a little color in her
cheeks, she wouldn't be bad at all. At any rate, she was the most
pathetic little creature he had seen in a dog's age. And a fellow's
heart warmed to her most unprofessionally.
"Good for you!" He picked up Bébé with one hand, and piloting Claire
with the other, threaded the way carefully through the holiday traffic.
"I wish we had a sleigh and a pair of horses." He helped her into the
Buick coupé and got in beside her. The machine started. "It's a perfect
day for the country. What do you say to driving out into Westchester?"
Claire flushed joyfully.
"Oh, I'd love it," she cried, off her guard. "I'm so tired of Riverside
Drive and the Park. It's my daily penance, you know." Her smile faded.
He nodded sympathetically. "Yes, I know."
They joined the northward traffic. With joyful tail-wagging Bébé leaped
to the window and stared out ecstatically.
"He loves it," said Claire, and smiled her tired little smile. "He goes
out in the car with me every day, and never seems to get tired of it as
I do."
"Do you always go alone?" asked the doctor shortly.
She turned her face away from the searching gray eyes.
"Yes, but I don't mind. It--it's a good time to think, you know."
"Yes," his searching eyes explored the averted cheek, upon which her
lashes fluttered nervously. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mrs.
Petrovskey?"
She turned apprehensive eyes upon him.
"Oh, no, Dr. Elliott, of course not."
"Isn't your husband the famous Mr. Petrovskey, the well-known pianist or
something?"
"The violinist," she corrected quietly. "Yes, Dr. Elliott."
"So I thought. Didn't he have a breakdown of some sort last summer? I
don't keep up much with artists and people like that, I haven't time,
but I seem to remember having read something about it in the papers."
Claire's voice faltered. She answered somewhat shortly. "Yes, he was
very ill, almost all summer. And now he has pneumonia."
Dr. Elliott looked startled.
"Pneumonia? But that is a shame, Mrs. Petrovskey. Is he in the
hospital?"
She hesitated visibly.
"No, he is in his studio at Gramercy Park."
He mastered a twinge of compunction, and persisted. It was absolutely
necessary that the girl should relieve her over-charged heart. That she
was apparently in bitter trouble of some sort had been palpable to him
ever since he first visited her in the hospital. Now that she was home
again and he had met that amiably sinister aunt, he felt more strongly
than ever her crying need of help.
"Taken ill while practicing, I suppose?" he continued casually.
With a useless effort to control her convulsed face, Claire met his eyes
reproachfully. Why could he not accept her subterfuge?
"Mr. Petrovskey and I are not living together," she said quickly,
mustering a few pitiful shreds of dignity.
The doctor looked ahead at the gleaming snow-covered road in front of
them. "Does he know you are pregnant?" he asked curtly.
"Oh no, no! He doesn't even suspect." She clasped and unclasped her
hands in utter distress. "Please, please, Dr. Elliott!"
But the voice went on grimly.
"I think he ought to be told, that is--as soon as he is well enough to
hear it."
She uttered a stifled cry. Then gathered her forces together with
hysterical strength.
"You don't understand the circumstances! I simply could not tell him
now," she cried with suppressed passion.
"Don't you love him?" probed the voice.
Head sunk upon her chest, a tempestuous wave of scarlet flooded Claire's
face and neck.
"Yes." The word was barely audible.
The doctor's eyes rested upon her with veiled pity. So there was another
woman, was there?
"Would you like me to tell him for you?" he persisted more gently.
Regardless of the wheel, Claire grasped his arm convulsively. "I cannot
bear this," she moaned. "Dr. Elliott, I don't want to go any further.
Will you please take me home?"
He drove to the side of the road and stopped the car. Eyes averted from
her tortured face, he spoke gravely.
"Mrs. Petrovskey, I hope you will forgive me for being so rough. But I
am only trying to help you, in my clumsy way. I have seen from the first
that things were not right with you, and I thought that if you could
bring yourself to speak out, it would help you. I am your doctor, you
know. And a doctor is in his own manner a species of father confessor.
But I see that I have made a mistake, and a perfect brute of myself
besides. If I promise not to mention the subject again, will you try to
forgive me?"
His sincerity touched her. With an attempt at a smile, she laid her hand
upon his sleeve.
"Of course, I will! I realized all along that you were trying to help
me, that it wasn't just idle curiosity on your part."
"I should hope not," he muttered fervently.
"But I just couldn't act any differently. I seem to be tied up in double
bow-knots. You understand, don't you?"
Her ardent little face pleaded. The wistful eyes sought his evasive
gaze. As he met them his heart contracted. An amazing childish desire to
cry suddenly came over him. Damn it, the girl had no business to be so
pathetic!
He caught the groping hand and squeezed it fraternally.
"Let's let bygones be bygones," he replied. "But if you still wish it,
I'll drive you directly home. However, the Gramatan Inn is much nearer
and I'm a starving man. Won't you change your mind and have lunch with
me?"
He looked so eager and boyish that she hated to refuse him.
"I'm not very hungry," she ventured doubtfully.
"Oh, but you will be! I'll wrap the rug about you tightly and open the
window, and by the time we get there you'll be ready to eat shoe
leather."
"Very well," she smiled at him faintly, as he opened the window and
tucked the bearskin robe about her. "But will they allow Bébé in the
dining room?" She clutched weakly at a last hope.
"We'll smuggle him under my coat, that'll be half the fun! And if they
put us out, that will be still more fun!"
His unaffected gayety was contagious.
"You are grimly determined to have a good time, whatever happens, aren't
you?" she said with an ironic lift of the delicate brows.
They glided back on to the road.
"It isn't every day I have lunch with a pretty girl. My Sundays are
lonesome and monotonous," replied the doctor simply.
Claire looked at him in amazement.
"A pretty girl!" she stammered almost indignantly. That was trying to
humor her a little too far!
His eyes met her hurt gaze with unfeigned astonishment.
"What's the matter? Have I offended again?" he asked quietly.
"I'd like you better if you didn't pretend that I was pretty, that's
all," said Claire somberly. "Nobody knows better than I what a plain,
insignificant creature I am."
"You are neither plain nor insignificant," he replied crossly. "And I'm
not the kind of man to say what I don't mean."
Claire flushed painfully at her lack of savoir faire.
"Please forgive me, Dr. Elliott. I don't seem to know how to take things
lightly any more."
He smiled sideways at her.
"We seem to do nothing but quarrel and make up like a pair of kids! But
how about the appetite? For here we are!"
They had entered Bronxville, and the Gramatan Inn loomed benevolently
over them from the top of its comfortable little hill.
"How pretty!" exclaimed Claire, jumping out of the car almost briskly.
"Quite English, isn't it?"
He noticed her animated face with secret pleasure.
"Tries to be," laughed he. "Where's the flea? Let's hide him under my
coat."
Claire looked surprised, then nodded understanding.
"Oh, you mean Bébé!" She handed him the little dog laughingly.
"Remember, if the flea bites, you mustn't scratch!"
But the waiter was kind, and as the dining-room was almost empty,
permitted the beastie a chair between them.
At lunch the gayety was somewhat forced. Claire ate as much as she could
of the beefsteak and baked potatoes upon which the doctor insisted. (Her
tentative order of chicken-pattie and tea had been vigorously
pooh-poohed. Why did women persist in poisoning themselves?) But the
food choked her as usual, and her pretense at appetite was only too
transparent.
The man watched her beneath thoughtful brows. What sort of a brute could
Petrovskey be to neglect a pathetic creature like that? He ought to be
kicked. He, Robert Elliott, would like to do the kicking. These artists
were all damned neurotics anyway. No healthy, red blood in 'em. He'd
like to show him! Yes, by Jove, he'd like to--but what was the use of
ranting around like a movie hero? The girl was evidently infatuated, and
no amount of kicking, metaphorical or physical, would alter the fact.
Meanwhile, her need of distraction and companionship was imperative. She
was obviously suffering from an inferiority complex of long standing. A
complex probably based on the small nothings which sometimes take so
deep a root in sensitive natures. Perhaps with gayety and
self-confidence and a knowledge of dress she might have held even the
odious Petrovskey. But was such a man worth holding? And why did women
cling so rapaciously to men like that? He shrugged mentally. (Anything
so Continental as a physical shrug would have been impossible for Robert
Elliott).
Claire made a feeble effort to talk. One must be polite to one's host.
But she was wondering if she should not offer to pay for her own lunch.
She did not know how to broach the subject without hurting Dr. Elliott's
feelings. He looked so young, she was sure he must be poor. Young
doctors were always poor, and equally sensitive.
"Are you a New York man?" she inquired diffidently.
He shook his head.
"I should say not. These Easterners get my goat. No, I'm from what the
novelists call the Great Middlewest, Main Street and all that bunk, you
know. Some time I intend going back to practice in Chicago."
Claire nodded politely.
"Did you go to medical school here in the East?"
Dr. Elliott nodded. "Yes, you see I was lucky enough to win a
scholarship. That led to an internship, too, and then I decided to stay
on for a while. But I hope to clean up in about a year."
"Clean up?" Claire looked surprised.
He laughed.
"Finish. You don't understand my argot, do you? I must seem an awful
roughneck to you."
Claire smiled delightedly.
"Roughneck? No, indeed you don't! You see I know what that means! I like
the way you talk. It sounds so eager and interested and young. Most of
the people I see are a good deal older. You are very refreshing."
"You are quaint," he laughed. "One would think you were an old lady
instead of a baby! Why, you look so young you ought to have a wet
nurse."
She turned scarlet at his unconscious reminder of her state. How
beautifully simple the man was!
"I'm not very old," she said hastily, in order to cover her confusion.
"Only twenty-two. But it feels like a thousand." Her involuntary sigh
was full of weariness.
He patted her hand, as it idly crumbled the bread upon her plate.
"Poor kid!"
Then his eyes lighted daringly.
"Don't you think you'd feel less aged if you wore a more youthful hat?"
She looked at him in utter surprise.
"Don't you like my hat?" Her tone was wistful.
"Isn't it a trifle middle-aged?" he replied cautiously. "Your face is so
small and pale, it sort of broods over it, like a hen sitting on an egg.
Why don't you get yourself something flapperish with a little color in
it?"
Claire drew a puzzled breath.
"Somehow I never thought that was my style. And color makes me look
paler than ever."
"That's easily remedied. Plenty of good food, fresh air, sleep, and no
worry."
Claire's smile was a trifle rueful. "Haven't I heard that prescription
before, Dr. Elliott?" she inquired somewhat dryly.
His brilliant teeth flashed out from out the dark face.
"I'll admit it's a bromide. But just to prove I'm not an old fogey, I'll
give you a prescription after lunch which will work wonders before your
very eyes. No--it's not a flask." He laughed as her puzzled gaze rested
upon his hip pocket. "Although I've been known to recommend that at
times. And now, how about some ice-cream?"
Claire shook her head decidedly.
"Oh, no, I couldn't, Dr. Elliot. I feel like a Strassbourg goose, as it
is."
"About as crowded as the corner of Fifth Avenue and 42d Street? Well, I
won't insist. You've been a pretty good little lady. But remember, no
tea, no coffee, no chicken patties when I'm not around. Beefsteak, baked
potatoes, spinach, etc. Is it a promise?" He held out a solemn hand
across the table.
"Yes," she placed her fingers in his somewhat timidly. "I promise. And
now how about the prescription?"
He released her and rising to his feet helped her on with her coat, a
long, expensive moleskin, which accentuated the slight sallowness of her
complexion.
"Promise to take it, no matter how obnoxious?" he admonished, finger in
the air.
"Is it castor-oil?" Her smile was almost roguish.
"No, I'm not as cold blooded as you think!" he replied with mock
gravity. "Follow me down to the drug store and you'll see."
Picking up Bébé, who had fed bountifully off the scraps, he led the way
downstairs.
The prescription was contained in a tiny red leather box.
"Why, it looks like rouge!" exclaimed Claire in a horrified tone.
"Some call it so," said the doctor gayly. "But it would smell as sweet
under any other name." He sniffed at it appreciatively. "Come now," he
continued, utterly regardless of the clerk's amused eyes. "Come over to
the light and we will proceed with the operation. Shall I have to use an
anæsthetic?"
"But I've never done such a thing in my life!" protested Claire
vigorously.
"It's not at all difficult," he replied. "It only requires a delicate
touch like mine (am I not a surgeon?) and presto! my lady blooms like a
wild rose."
He brushed Claire's cheekbones lightly with the puff, adding a touch to
the small pointed chin. Her lashes fluttering like the wings of a
butterfly, Claire let him have his way.
He stepped back and looked at her admiringly.
"Did I say wild rose? It should have been tea rose. I am indeed an
artist," he said softly, a new expression creeping into his honest eyes.
Claire gazed at herself in the tiny mirror. The change both frightened
and delighted her.
"Don't you think it's wicked?--why, you'd never know it wasn't real!"
she cried femininely.
"Of course not. But like all prescriptions it mustn't be overdone. It
should be taken homeopathically, in microscopic doses."
"It makes me feel so daring," said Claire, as they emerged on to the
street.
"That's just what you need," he replied promptly. "Audacity, more
audacity, and still more audacity, as Balzac or some other old French
geezer said."
The drive home was almost too short. Dr. Elliott talked of himself and
his ambition, and Claire listened with real interest. It seemed
obstetrics was to be his specialty, as it was obviously his god.
"You have no idea what a need there is for it in small towns," he told
her enthusiastically. "The countless farmers' wives that could be saved
if they had the proper attention! Pregnancy should be treated as a real
sickness. If you leave it all to nature, the old lady goes about it in
her usual, sloppy, destructive way. But give it the proper attention and
it responds like a flash." He gave her a quick, piercing look.
"Child-birth is no longer a bugaboo of the Old Testament, thanks to
science, and I'm going to make it my business to prove it."
A little tremulous and self-conscious, Claire looked at him with
trepidation. Would he be mentioning her own condition soon?
But he knew better than to do that. Gradually, the conversation became
frivolous. Before she arrived home, Claire had not only promised to buy
a new hat, but to buy it in his company.
"We will go to one of those places on 57th Street--you don't care what
you pay, do you? They'll sting you, of course, but you'll get something
snappy. Then we'll have lunch somewhere and if I can get off from the
hospital, go to the matinée. How about it?"
Claire smiled happily. Then her expression became dubious. She was
evidently screwing herself up to say something very difficult indeed.
"What's the matter? Shoot," said the doctor with twinkling eyes.
"Shoot? Oh, I see! Well, as a matter of fact, Dr. Elliott, I will go
with you under one condition only."
"Name it."
"That you will allow me to pay my own way. I wouldn't enjoy it
otherwise." Her eyes pleaded with him not to be offended.
He looked nonplussed for a moment, then nodded at her gravely.
"Very well, Mrs. Petrovskey, if it would make you happier, we'll have it
Dutch treat. But I'm not really quite as hard up as all that, you know."
They had arrived at her apartment, and he was helping her out of the car
with his usual impersonal courtesy.
She flushed salmon pink beneath the touch of rouge.
"Please don't be hurt," she begged.
He smiled down at her.
"No one could be offended with a Greuze," he replied softly. "And you
look just like one at this moment. How's that for highbrow?" he
finished, with a faint attempt at lightness.
But the words sank deep, carrying balm, into Claire's wounded heart.
When Mme. Petrovskey encountered her a few moments later as she entered
the apartment, she could hardly believe her eyes.
"The cold air has given you quite a flush," she said graciously for her.
"Where have you been? Ito was worried because you didn't return for
lunch."
(Ito had worried! Claire shrugged with amusement, and yet how that
remark might have hurt a few short hours ago!)
"I met Dr. Elliott in the park, and he took me to the Gramatan Inn in
Bronxville for lunch."
Mme. Petrovskey raised dumbfounded brows. Then her expression changed
suddenly. The small eyes became non-committal slits. She smiled suavely.
"Dr. Elliott? How nice! Do you like him?"
She watched Claire narrowly as she spoke.
"Yes, very much," said the girl naïvely. "I promised to go out to the
theater with him next week."
"That's right. You might as well amuse yourself," said her mother-in-law
carelessly, "seeing Alexis is taken care of. By the way, has Mrs.
Schuyler a husband?"
Claire turned away to hide her smitten face.
"No, I believe she's a widow." Her voice was harsh.
"Ah!"
Mme. Petrovskey drew a long, hissing breath. "She seems to be very well
off, doesn't she?" she persisted.
"Very," said Claire shortly. A vision of Anne, jeweled and sumptuous in
the Kolinsky evening wrap rose before her aching eyes. "I think if you
don't mind. I'll go to my room and lie down a little while."
She turned and walked down the long hall.
Mme. Petrovskey's voice followed her almost caressingly.
"Of course not, dear child. That's right, take care of yourself. You're
looking so much better already. I think Dr. Elliott (is that the young
man's name?) is quite a treasure. We must cultivate him, my dear."