The hands of the office clock were pointing to half after two, on a
certain September night, when Burns came into his office, alone. The
fire in the office fireplace, kept bright until nearly midnight, when
his housekeeper had given up waiting for him and gone to bed, had burned
to a few smouldering lumps of cannel-slag. A big leather easy-chair,
its arms worn with much use, had been pulled into an inviting position
before the fireplace, and the night-light by the desk was burning, as
usual. All that could be expected had been done by the kind-hearted
Cynthia, who comprehended, by signs she knew well and had been watching
for several days, that affairs were going wrong with her employer.
But he needed more than could be given him by things inanimate--needed
it woefully. He came in as a man comes who is not only physically' weary
to the point of exhaustion, but heart sick and sore besides. He dropped
his heavy surgical bags upon the floor by the desk as if he wanted never
to take them up again, pulled off coat and cap and let them fall where
they would, then stumbled blindly over to the big chair and sank into it
with a great sigh, as if he had reached the end of all endeavour.
If it had been physical fatigue alone which had brought him to this pass
he might have dropped asleep where he sat, and waked, after an hour or
two, to drag himself away to bed, like one who had been drugged. For a
short space, indeed, he lay motionless in the chair in the attitude of
one so spent for sleep that he must needs find it in the first place his
body touches. But there are times when the mind will not let the body
rest. And this was one of them.
The scene he had left lately was burning before his tired eyes; the
sounds he had lately heard were beating in his brain. For a week he had
been putting every power he possessed into the attaining of an end for
which it had more than once seemed to him that he would be willing to
sacrifice his own life. He had dared everything, fought every one, had
his own way in spite of every obstacle, believing to the last that he
could win, as he had so often won before, by sheer contempt of danger.
But this time he had failed.
That was all there was of it--he had failed, failed so absolutely, so
humiliatingly, so publicly--this was the way he put it to himself--that
he was in disgrace. He had operated when others advised against
operation and had seemed to succeed, brilliantly and incredibly. Then
the case had begun to go wrong. He had operated a second time--against
all precedent, taking tremendous risks--and had lost.
But this was not the worst. He had lost cases before and had suffered
keenly over them, but not as he was suffering now. In a world of death
some cases must be lost, even by the most successful of all of his
profession. But this was an unusual case. This was--O God--how could he
bear losing this one?
He had known her from a little girl of eight till now, when at sixteen,
bright, beautiful, winsome sixteen, he had... what had he done? She
might have had a chance for life--without operation. He had taken that
chance away. And she had trusted him--how she had trusted him! Ah, there
was the bitter drop in the cup the turn of the knife in the raw wound.
When the others had opposed, she had looked up at him with that smile
of hers--how could she smile when she was in such pain?--and whispered:
“Please do whatever you want to, Doctor Burns.” And he had answered
confidently: “Good for you, Lucile--if only they'd all trust me like
that I'd show them what I could do!”
Vain boast--wild boast! He had been a fool--twice a fool--thrice a
fool! He was a fool clear through--that was the matter with him--a proud
fool who had thought that with a thrust of his keen-edged tools he
could turn Death himself aside.
And when he had tried his hand a second time, in the last futile effort
to avert the impending disaster, she had trusted him just the same. When
he had said to her, speaking close to her dull ear: “Dear little girl,
I'm going to ask you to go to sleep again for me,” she had turned
her head upon the pillow, that tortured young head--he would not have
thought she could move it at all--and had smiled at him again... for the
last time... He would remember that smile while he lived.
He got up from his chair as the intolerable memory smote him again, as
it had been smiting him these three hours since the end had come. He
began to pace the floor, back and forth back and forth. There were those
who said that R. P. Burns threw off his cases easily, did not worry
about them, did not take it to heart when they went wrong. It is a thing
often said of the men who must turn from one patient to another, and
show to the second no hint of how the first may be faring. Those who say
it do not know--can never know.
The hours wore on. Burns could not sleep, could not even relax and rest.
To the first agony of disappointment succeeded a depression so profound
that it seemed to him he could never rise above it and take up his work
again. A hundred times he went painfully over the details of the case,
from first to last. Why had he done as he had? Why had he not listened
to Grayson, to Van Horn, to Fields? Only Buller had backed him up in his
decisions--and he knew well enough that Buller had done it only because
of his faith in Burns himself and his remembrance of some of his
extraordinary successes, not because his own judgment approved.
Five o'clock--six o'clock--he had thrown himself into the chair again,
and had, at last, dropped into an uneasy sort of half slumber, when the
office door quietly opened and Miss Mathewson came in. It was two hours
before she was due. Burns roused and regarded her wonderingly, with eyes
heavy and blood-shot. She stood still and looked down at him, sympathy
in her face. She herself was pale with fatigue and loss of sleep, for
she had been with him throughout the week of struggle over the case
he had lost, and she knew the situation as no one else, even his
professional colleagues, knew it. But she smiled wanly down at him, like
a pitying angel.
“You didn't go to bed, Doctor,” she said, very gently. “I was afraid you
wouldn't. Won't you go now? You know there's a day's work before you.”
He shook his head. “No--I'd rather get out in the air. I'm going now.
I'd like to take the Imp and--drive to--”
“No, no!”--She spoke quickly, coming closer, as if she understood and
would not let him use the reckless, common phrase which sometimes means
despair. “I thought you might be feeling like that--that's why I came
early. Not that I can say anything to cheer you, Doctor Burns--I know
you care too much for that. But there's one thing you must realize--you
must say it over and over to yourself--you did your best. No human being
can do more.”
“A fool's best,” he muttered. “Cold comfort that.”
“Not a fool's best--a skilful surgeon's best.”
He shook his head again, got slowly up from his chair, and stood
staring down into the ashes of the long-dead fire. The usually straight
shoulders were bent; the naturally well-poised head, always carried
confidently erect, was sunk upon the broad chest.
Amy Mathewson watched him for a minute, her own face full of pain; then
laid her hand, rather timidly, upon his arm. He looked round at her
and tried to smile, but the effort only made his expression the more
pitiful.
“Bless your heart,” said he, brokenly, “I believe you'd stand by me to
the last ditch of a failure.”
Her eyes suddenly filled. “I'd let you operate--on my mother--to-day,”
said she, in a low voice.
He gazed into her working face for a long moment, seized her hand and
wrung it hard, then strode away into the inner office and flung the door
shut behind him.
A half-hour later he came out. He had himself sternly in hand again. His
shoulders were squared, his head up; in his face was written a peculiar
grim defiance which those who did not comprehend might easily mistake
for the stoicism imputed to men of his calling under defeat. Miss
Mathewson knew better, understood that it was taking all his courage
to face his work again, and realized as nobody else could that the day
before him would be one of the hardest he had yet had to live. But
she was hopeful that little by little he would come back to the same
recognition of that which she felt was really true, that, in spite of
the results, he had been justified in the risk he had taken, and that he
could not be blamed that conditions which only a superhuman penetration
could have foreseen would arise to thwart him.
“Cynthia has your breakfast ready for you Doctor,” Miss Mathewson said
quietly, as he came out. She did not look up from the desk, where
she was working on accounts. But as he passed her, on his way to the
dining-room, he laid his hand for an instant on her shoulder, and when
she looked up she met his grateful eyes. She had given him the greatest
proof of confidence in her power, and it had been the one ray of light
in his black hour.
“Won't you take just a taste o' the chops, Doctor?” urged his
housekeeper, anxiously. She knew nothing of the situation, but she had
not served him for eight years not to have learned something of his
moods, and it was clear to her that he had had little sleep for many
nights.
But he put aside the plate. “I know they're fine, Cynthia,” said he in
his gentlest way. “But the coffee's all I want, this morning. Another
cup, please.”
Cynthia hesitated, a motherly sort of solicitude in her homely face.
“Doctor, do you know you've had four, a'ready? And it's awful strong.”
“Have I! Well--perhaps that's enough. Thank you, Cynthia.”
His housekeeper looked after him, as he left the room. “He's terrible
blue, to be so polite as that,” she reflected. “When he's happy he's in
such a hurry he don't have time to thank a body. Of the two. I guess I'd
rather have him hustlin' rude!”
In the middle of the day Burns met Van Horn.
“Sorry the case went wrong, Doctor,” said his colleague. There was a
peculiar sparkle in his eye as he offered this customary, perfunctory
condolence.
“Thank you,” replied Burns, shortly.
“I didn't wish to seem skeptical, and you certainly have had remarkable
success in somewhat similar cases. But it seemed to me that in advising
as I did I was holding the only safe ground. Personally I'm not in
favour of taking chances and in this case it seemed to me they were
pretty slim.”
“They were.”
“I did my best to assure the family that you were within your rights.”
“Much obliged.”
“I don't blame you for feeling broken up about it,” declared the
other man, soothingly. “But we all have to learn by experience, and
conservatism is one of the hardest lessons.”
An ugly light was growing in Red Pepper's eye. He got away without
further words. Only last week Van Horn had been helped out of a serious
and baffling complication by Burns himself, and no credit given to the
rescuer. From him this sort of high and mighty sympathy was particularly
hard to bear.
Around the corner he encountered Grayson. This, as it was so little to
be desired, was naturally to be expected.
“Too bad, Doctor,” Grayson began, stopping to shake hands. Van Horn had
not even shaken hands. “I hoped till the last that we were all wrong and
you were right. But that heart seemed dangerously shaky to me, though I
know you didn't think so.”
“I didn't.”
“There was a queer factor in the case, one I felt from the first, though
I couldn't put my finger on it. It was the thing that made me advise
against operation.”
“I understand.”
“But of course there's no use crying over spilt milk; you did your
best,” continued Grayson cheerfully. “Pretty little girl--plucky, too.
Sorry to see her go.”
Burns nodded--and bolted. These Job's comforters--were they trying to
make the thing seem even more unbearable than it already was? Certainly
they were succeeding admirably. He went on about his work with
set teeth, expecting at the next turn to run into Fields. He would
undoubtedly find him at the hospital, ready to greet him with some
croaking sympathy. True to his expectations Fields met him at the door.
He himself was looking particularly prosperous and cheerful, as people
have a way of appearing to us when our trouble is root theirs.
“Good morning, Doctor.” Fields shook hands, evidently trying to modify
his own demeanour of unusual good cheer over a list of patients all
safely on the road to ultimate recovery. “I want to express my regret
over the way things came out last night. Mighty pretty operation--if it
had succeeded. Sorry it didn't. Better luck next time.”
“Much obliged.” Burns had a bull-dog expression now. Not the most
discerning observer would have imagined he felt a twinge of regret over
his failure.
“Would you mind telling me what made you so confident that the
spleen had nothing to do with the complication?” Fields inquired in a
deprecatory manner which made Burns long to twist his neck.
“Did you suggest that it did--beforehand?”
“I believe I did--if I remember.”
“I believe you didn't--nor any other man till I got in and found it.
You all observed it then--and so did I. Excuse me--I'm in too much of a
hurry to stop to discuss the case now. I'm due upstairs.” And once more
Burns made good his escape.
“Sore,” was Field's verdict, looking after the man who had been his
successful rival for so long that this exception could hardly fail
to afford a decided, if rather shame-faced satisfaction to a brother
surgeon not above that quite human' sentiment.
But in the course of the day Burns met Buller. He had dreaded to meet
him, but not for the same reason that he had dreaded the others. Meeting
Buller was quite another story.
“Old boy, I'm so sorry I could cry, if it would do you any good,” said
Buller, his steady, honest gaze meeting his friend's miserable eyes.
For the defiance had melted out of Burns's aspect and left it frankly
wretched before the hearty friendship in this man's whole attitude;
friendship which could be counted upon, like that of his office nurse's,
to the end of all things.
Burns swallowed hard, making no reply, because he could not. But his
hand returned the steady pressure of Buller's in a way that showed he
was grateful.
“I knew you'd take it hard--much harder than common. And, of course, I
understand why. Any man would. But I wish I could make you feel the
way I do about it. There's not one particle of reason for you to blame
yourself. I've thought the case over and over from start to finish, and
I'm more and more convinced that she wouldn't have lived without the
operation. You gave her her only chance. Take that in? I mean it. I went
around there this morning and told the family so--I took that liberty.
It was a comfort to them, though they believed anyway. They haven't lost
a particle of faith in you.”
Burns bit his lip till he had it under control, and could get out a word
or two of gratitude.
“And now I want a favour of you,” the other went on hurriedly. “A case I
want you to see with me--possible operation within a day or two.”
Burns hesitated an instant, changing colour. Then: “Are you sure you'd
better have me?” he asked, a trifle huskily.
The other looked him in the eye. “Why not? I know of nobody so
competent. Come, man--put that Satan of unreasonable self-reproach behind
you. When man becomes omniscient and omnipotent there'll be no errors in
his judgment or his performance--and not before. Meanwhile we're all in
the soup of fallibility together. I--I'm not much at expressing myself
elegantly: but I trust I'm sufficiently forcible,” smiled Buller.
“Er--will you meet me at four at my office? We'll go to the Arnolds'
together, and I'll give you the history of the case on the way. It's a
corker, I assure you, and it's keeping me awake nights.”
Proceeding on his way alone in the Imp--he had not wanted even Johnny
Caruthers's company to-day--Burns found the heaviness of his spirit
lifting slightly--very slightly. Tenderness toward the little lost
patient who had loved and trusted him so well began gradually to
usurp the place of the black hatred of what he felt to be his own
incompetency. Passing a florist's shop he suddenly felt like giving that
which, as it had occurred to him before, had seemed to him would be only
a mockery from his hands. He went in and selected flowers--dozens and
dozens of white rosebuds, fresh and sweet--and sent them, with no card
at all, to her home.
Then he drove on to his next patient, to find himself surrounded by an
eager group of happy people, all rejoicing in what appeared to them to
be a marvelous deliverance from a great impending danger, entirely due
to his own foresight and skill. He knew well enough that it was Nature
herself who had come to the rescue, and frankly told them so. But they
continued to thrust the honour upon him, and he could but come away with
a softened heart.
“I'll go on again,” he said to himself. “I've got to go on. Last night I
thought I couldn't, but, of course, that's nonsense. The best I can--God
knows I try... And I'll never make that mistake again... But oh!--little
Lucile--little Lucille!”