DR. PORTER GOES TO WORK
On Saturday, I received the card Gordon had mentioned. It was a
tastefully engraved thing, merely announcing that the Van Rossums would
be at home on the Seventeenth of March, from four until seven. In a
corner, in smaller letters, was written "To meet Mr. Gordon McGrath, N.
A."
I don't know whether I have mentioned the fact that Gordon is really an
extremely handsome fellow, in a strong and masculine way, with a
pleasant voice and manners that can be quite exquisite, at least when he
isn't talking to an old pal. I am not at all surprised that Miss Sophia,
or any other woman, for that matter, should have been attracted by his
looks, while his great talent and growing reputation must have added to
his ability to find favor in her eyes. His is not a descent from an old
family, I believe, for the dead and gone McGraths dealt in pottery, in a
small way, and left him about a thousand dollars a year, upon which he
managed to go abroad and study art, to return, at last, and take New
York by storm, at least from the standpoint of portrait painting. The
young lady, I am sure, is a woman of ready affection, of easy
enthusiasms and hopeful disposition. I honestly believe that she
deserves much happiness and that she is capable of giving a sturdy love
to a decent fellow, who will not interfere too much with her passion for
various sports. An uncomfortable feeling comes to me that she is worthy
of something better than Gordon will give her. I may be an old donkey,
but, for the life of me, I can see no indication of true love in his
feelings. The thought is rather revolting that he is marrying her as a
mere incident in a line of conduct mapped out long ago, and it makes me
feel less friendly to him. If my deductions are correct, there can be no
excuse for a behavior which bears the earmarks of cynicism and cold
calculation carried too far. May I be forgiven, if I err. Indeed, I
earnestly hope that I am mistaken and that he is a man who conceals
sentiments really creditable to him under an exterior less attractive.
Frieda and Frances were in my room, that afternoon, when the card
arrived. I passed it to Frieda, who handed it over to her friend. The
reception referred to led the former to some discussion of prevailing
fashions. The painter of Orion dresses in a manner all her own, while
the slender purse of Frances compels a garb of nearly monastic
simplicity. But they appear to have a great knowledge of stylish
clothing and an interest in it, which must be rather an instinct than
the result of deep study.
I have not mentioned Gordon's engagement to them, probably for the
reason that the subject is somewhat distasteful to me. Since my friend
has not spoken of it to his model, there is no particular reason why I
should do so. Let him attend to his own announcing.
In the evening, I took both of them to the movies. This was the result
of a conspiracy between Frieda and myself, as we had agreed that it
would be best to try and amuse Frances, if possible, and make her forget
the morrow's ordeal. Yet, on our way home, the poor child could not help
mentioning it.
"He says that my throat is beautifully trained and he can touch all
sorts of things in it, now, with his instruments. I no longer mind it in
the least. He tells me that he doesn't think it will hurt me, but, of
course, I care nothing about a little pain. He's an awfully good fellow.
What I'm afraid of is that it will do no good and that I shall never be
able to use my voice again. I'm awfully hoarse now."
It was quite true that her voice was more husky, and the element of
sadness in it made it sound worse. She spoke very low as she bade us
good night, for I was going to take Frieda home.
In the morning I rose at an unearthly hour, spurred by the knowledge
that I was going to the doctor's with Frances at eleven o'clock. I was
bathed, shaved and clad in my Sunday suit by nine, after which I went
out and brought back an armful of Sunday papers, which I tossed on my
table and never looked at.
Soon afterwards, Eulalie came in, rather bashfully, to ask me if I could
lend Madame Dupont the _Courier_. Also, she confided to me the fact that
she was to mind Baby Paul during our absence.
"The doctor is going to cut the poor lamb's throat and it is terrible,
Monsieur, but she is not afraid. I am going away for a half an hour now,
because it will do no harm to burn a candle before the Blessed Virgin
for the success of the operation. Yes, I think I will put two candles.
Now if Monsieur believed----"
I swiftly pulled a bill from my trousers pocket.
"Here, Eulalie, is a dollar," I told her. "You will be so good as to
dispose of it as if I were a brother to a cardinal. Faith, I believe,
comes before hope and charity. Would that mine were as strong as your
own, especially as concerns a certain friend of mine. Hurry away and
return with seven-leagued boots."
"Monsieur is a very good man; any one can see that. _Ca vous portera
bonheur._"
Her assurance that my offering would bring me happiness comforted me, I
think. Few of us can resist the temptation to think that luck is a manna
whose falling may occasionally be guided by our actions, and that
ill-chance may be averted by touching wood or, as is the way of
Italians, extending the fore and little finger as a safeguard against
the evil eye.
For a time, I sought to read, but the pages of the Sunday papers seemed
to be blurred. I paced the room, nervously, thinking of Gordon and of
Frances. The latter had described her recent visits to the studio as
funereal functions, during which Gordon painted fast and doggedly, while
biting at the stem of an empty pipe, and occasionally swore at the
canvas. Sometimes, he tired her nearly to death, working for hours
without interruption, while, on other occasions, he insisted on her
resting every few minutes and called himself a brute for taking
advantage of her patience.
"But then, you know, Mr. McGrath is a very peculiar man," she said, as
if this condoned all his faults.
Presently, Eulalie returned, knocking violently at my door, and assured
me that every cent of my dollar was now burning brightly, where it would
do most good, and informed me that the two ladies were waiting for me.
"It is time to go, Dave," said Frieda, who seemed to be making hard
weather of her efforts at composure. "Frances is all ready and Baby Paul
is sleeping. Eulalie will take the best care of him. Come along!"
And so we trooped off to Dr. Porter's office. He was waiting for us,
clad in an immaculate white jacket. Frances entrusted her hat to Frieda
and sat down quietly on a chair in a dark corner. Porter drew down some
blinds, whereby we were plunged in semi-darkness, and turned on a
powerful light which strongly illumined a small circle of his patient's
face. I was sitting down on a sofa, rather close to Frieda. A few
moments later we were leaning on one another for support. One of her
good fat hands was trembling a little, in mine, which may possibly have
been similarly affected.
"We'll take lots of time," I heard Porter say. "Yes, this is novocaine.
Open wide now--breathe through your mouth--slowly. That's very good--now
rest a little. Once again, I want to get a thorough anaesthesia--another
little rest--we are in no hurry. Don't be afraid. You have the
finest throat to work on I ever saw, a superb control over it. That
comes from all the training I have given you--now the last touch of
novocaine--that's all right--you'll feel nothing--I'm very sure."
Frieda was digging her nails into my hand, excruciatingly, and we both
breathed hard as we saw Porter take up other long and shiny tools that
gleamed in the obscurity. He was doing something with them, quietly,
with a constant flow of encouraging language. I wondered how the man's
voice could remain so calm. Frieda's left heel rested for a moment on my
right big toe, crushingly, but she knew not what she was doing, and I
bore the torture without a cry, till I could push her away. I had not
realized that a man could suffer so much. And Porter was still working
away, looking ghostly in the penumbra. Then, suddenly, he let out an
ejaculation imitated from the Comanches, rose from his chair, ran to the
window and admitted a flood of light that nearly blinded us. Frieda,
shamefaced, lifted her head from my shoulder and rose with incredible
swiftness.
"Is--is it all over?" she asked, tremulously.
"Surest thing you know," replied our young friend. "The finest little
growth upon the right chord you ever saw. I had made up my mind not to
go at it halfcocked, and that's why I've taken so much time to get her
so that a fellow could do anything he wanted to her larynx. But it pays,
I can tell you!"
"And--and will I be able to sing again?" asked Frances, hoarsely.
"You will have to use your voice just as little as possible for a few
days," he answered. "Not a word more than you can help. I hope--I
believe that you will be able to sing again, after the chord heals up,
but you must not try for a long time. And then it will take a lot of
practice, of course, because your throat has forgotten nearly all it
ever knew about singing. It will have to come back slowly and gradually.
Be sure and come in to-morrow and let me have a look at it."
Frances thanked him, huskily, and Frieda and I wrung his hand. After
this we left, in the bright sunshine of a day of cloudless skies, and
returned to Mrs. Milliken's, where I left the two women at the door,
returning a half an hour later with a small bunch of pink roses. When I
reached my landing, her door was open; Frieda was at work with a crochet
needle on a diminutive blue sock, while Frances was lying down on the
sofa. She never looked up as I came in, for her lovely head was bent
down towards the sleeping mite.
[Illustration: Her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite]
"Maybe I shall sing to you after all, _mon petit Paul cheri_," she
said, hoarsely, and looked up at me, a few tears in her eyes vanishing
as she saw the buds I was bringing her.
My finger went to my mouth, as an invitation to silence.
"You have spoken to Master Paul," I said, "and we will have to forgive
you. It would have been cruel to forbid you such small comfort. But now,
Frieda and I are to attend to all the conversation, for you are to keep
as silent as the Sphynx. Eulalie, will you be so kind as to put these
flowers in water?"
A moment later came up a messenger with a box, an oblong cardboard thing
of immense size. I signed his ticket and bestowed ten cents upon him,
because he had curly hair and a snub nose. Then, at a signal from
Frances, I opened the box, from which cascaded American Beauties, lilies
of the valley and several sprigs of white lilac. I handed the enclosed
card to the little mother. She had been staring at the flowers and gazed
at the pasteboard in wonder. Then she passed it over to me. It was one
of Gordon's, marked "With best wishes. Please don't think of coming for
a few days until you are quite well."
"Isn't it nice of him!" exclaimed Frieda, rushing out of the room.
Presently, she returned, bearing two icewater pitchers and a dreadful
china vase in which she disposed the flowers, placing them on the
mantel-piece. But I was touched when I saw that she put my little roses
on the table, in the middle of the room, and told Frances what a
delightful odor they had.
"I--I never told him I was going to have the operation," whispered the
latter.
"I think I mentioned it to him a few days ago," I said, "and he
evidently remembered."
"Gordon is the dearest fellow," declared Frieda. "Frances, you will have
to sit down and write him a little note, this evening. And now lie down
again on the sofa, my dear, and I'll read the paper to you, if you like.
Here is the fashion part of the _Times_. There is not the slightest
doubt that skirts are going to be worn short and somewhat fuller than
last year, and the footwear is going to be very elaborate. For my part,
I refuse to wear shoes with white uppers because they make fat ankles
look ever so much bigger. Oh! Just look at this design for an evening
dress!"
I withdrew, seeing them so well occupied. It was only then that I
remembered I had had no breakfast, so I took my hat and went out for a
solitary refection of coffee and omelette. Passing in front of the
erstwhile dyeing and cleaning establishment, I noted that much blistered
paint had been scraped off and read a sign stating that the shop would
be opened again in a couple of weeks. This looked hopeful; once again
will the wind be tempered to the poor lamb. Gordon will finish his
picture and she will return to keeping accounts and advising anxious
ladies as to the possibilities of renovating sere and yellow waists and
skirts. It does not seem probable to me that she will sing again, in
spite of the ordeal she has been through. It would sound like too good a
thing to be true, and she can't speak above a whisper.
Later in the afternoon, after I had taken a hygienic walk, followed by
the absorption of varied information from the papers, Frieda came in
again. She considers Frances as a person requiring the utmost care and
has brought her a pink shawl to put over her shoulders. I have seen it
hang for years from a gas-fixture in Frieda's parlor.
When I proposed the usual refection of tea, Frieda held my arm as if the
little pot I brandished had been a lethal weapon, with which I expected
to destroy our patient. How could I venture on the responsibility of
giving Frances tea without knowing whether it would be good for her? I
declared that I would go and find out, and clattered down the stairs,
rushing over to Porter's. The street was steeped in sabbatical peace and
I reflected that the doctor would probably be out, attending to his
growing practice and soothing the fevered brow. The rather slouchy maid
of all work opened the door. Looking down the hall I saw Porter's red
head issuing cautiously from the edge of a portiere. A look of relief
came to his features, and he came to me.
"Anything wrong?" he asked.
"No, I came to find out whether it is safe to give Mrs. Dupont a cup of
tea?"
"Yes, and anything else she wants. Don't you want to come in the office
and meet some fellows? We are playing penny ante. You'll take a hand,
won't you?"
"Young man," I said, severely, "gambling is frowned upon by the police."
"Well, the sergeant of the precinct is one of us," he replied. "Plays a
mighty good hand."
"Then you have my blessing," I replied, "but I can't accept. I must go
back at once and make the tea. Another time I shall be delighted to lose
my coppers to one of our brave defenders. Good-by and good luck to you!"
I went away, clad with authority to dispense the cup that cheers, and
reflected with regret that Gordon would no longer drop in, as he had
been wont to. All his spare hours he would now spend with Miss Van
Rossum. I supposed that they would sit on a sofa and hold hands, a good
part of the time, unless this occupation be also one of the many
inventions issued from the brains of fervid writers. But why do I keep
on thinking about him? I am beginning to disapprove of him, and he is
drifting away from me. He has crossed a Rubicon and left no bridge for
me to go over. I would give anything to know that he is desperately in
love with Miss Van Rossum. It would exalt him in my eyes. Her wealth
means nothing. True love comes in spite of iron bars or golden ingots.
In his attractive personality and wonderful talent he has fully as much
to offer as the young woman can bestow upon him. The question before me
is whether he is really giving her all he has; his heart as well as his
genius; his faith and passion as well as the solitaire she is wearing. I
hope I am not unjust to him. But whether I am or not, I presume I am now
destined to see little of him. It makes me rather sad to think that one
more of my few golden links of friendship is to be broken or slowly
dissolved.
For a few moments I stood before the outer door, with the latch-key in
my hand, cogitating so deeply that I forgot to fit it in the lock.
Presently, I sighed and went in, making my way up the stairs quite
slowly and heavily, as if a few more years had suddenly piled themselves
up on my head. The ancient stair-carpet looked more than usually
unattractive and the wallpaper more decrepit. The fourth step on the
second flight, ever inclined to complain, positively groaned under my
weight, perhaps mistaking me for Frieda.
Finally I reached my landing.
"He's such a dear old stick-in-the-mud," I heard. "Never happy unless
he's worrying over some lost sheep or puzzling over the way of being
kind to some one. Frieda, you ought to take him by the nape of the neck,
hale him to the Bureau of Licenses, and thence to a parson. After that
you could roll him up in cotton-batting and make him happy all his
life."
"I'm much too busy," replied Frieda, laughing, "and I don't really think
he would like it."
I took a few quick steps and the three looked up. Gordon was sitting on
the corner of the bed, looking very fine with a gardenia in his
buttonhole. Frieda's face was expanded in the fat and lovable smile it
always bears when any one speaks of her marrying. Frances just welcomed
me as usual, with a look of her wonderful eyes.
"Hello, Gordon! What's new?" I asked him, rather embarrassed.
"Nothing very much," he replied. "Thought I'd like a cup of tea."