The Best of Mary Roberts Rinehart

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  He watched her go down the hall toward the night nurse's desk. He would have given everything just then for the right to call her back, to take her in his arms and comfort her. She seemed so alone. He himself had gone through loneliness and heartache, and the shadow was still on him. He waited until he saw her sit down at the desk and take up a pen. Then he went back into the quiet room.

  He stood by the bedside, looking down. Wilson was breathing quietly: his color was coming up, as he rallied from the shock. In K.'s mind now was just one thought--to bring him through for Sidney, and then to go away. He might follow Joe to Cuba. There were chances there. He could do sanitation work, or he might try the Canal.

  The Street would go on working out its own salvation. He would have to think of something for the Rosenfelds. And he was worried about Christine. But there again, perhaps it would be better if he went away. Christine's story would have to work itself out. His hands were tied.

  He was glad in a way that Sidney had asked no questions about him, had accepted his new identity so calmly. It had been overshadowed by the night tragedy. It would have pleased him if she had shown more interest, of course. But he understood. It was enough, he told himself, that he had helped her, that she counted on him. But more and more he knew in his heart that it was not enough. "I'd better get away from here," he told himself savagely.

  And having taken the first step toward flight, as happens in such cases, he was suddenly panicky with fear, fear that he would get out of hand, and take her in his arms, whether or no; a temptation to run from temptation, to cut everything and go with Joe that night. But there his sense of humor saved him. That would be a sight for the gods, two defeated lovers flying together under the soft September moon.

  Some one entered the room. He thought it was Sidney and turned with the light in his eyes that was only for her. It was Carlotta.

  She was not in uniform. She wore a dark skirt and white waist and her high heels tapped as she crossed the room. She came directly to him.

  "He is better, isn't he?"

  "He is rallying. Of course it will be a day or two before we are quite sure."

  She stood looking down at Wilson's quiet figure.

  "I guess you know I've been crazy about him," she said quietly. "Well, that's all over. He never really cared for me. I played his game and I--lost. I've been expelled from the school."

  Quite suddenly she dropped on her knees beside the bed, and put her cheek close to the sleeping man's hand. When after a moment she rose, she was controlled again, calm, very white.

  "Will you tell him, Dr. Edwardes, when he is conscious, that I came in and said good-bye?"

  "I will, of course. Do you want to leave any other message?"

  She hesitated, as if the thought tempted her. Then she shrugged her shoulders.

  "What would be the use? He doesn't want any message from me."

  She turned toward the door. But K. could not let her go like that. Her face frightened him. It was too calm, too controlled. He followed her across the room.

  "What are your plans?"

  "I haven't any. I'm about through with my training, but I've lost my diploma."

  "I don't like to see you going away like this."

  She avoided his eyes, but his kindly tone did what neither the Head nor the Executive Committee had done that day. It shook her control.

  "What does it matter to you? You don't owe me anything."

  "Perhaps not. One way and another I've known you a long time."

  "You never knew anything very good."

  "I'll tell you where I live, and--"

  "I know where you live."

  "Will you come to see me there? We may be able to think of something."

  "What is there to think of? This story will follow me wherever I go! I've tried twice for a diploma and failed. What's the use?"

  But in the end he prevailed on her to promise not to leave the city until she had seen him again. It was not until she had gone, a straight figure with haunted eyes, that he reflected whimsically that once again he had defeated his own plans for flight.

  In the corridor outside the door Carlotta hesitated. Why not go back? Why not tell him? He was kind; he was going to do something for her. But the old instinct of self-preservation prevailed. She went on to her room.

  Sidney brought her letter to Joe back to K. She was flushed with the effort and with a new excitement.

  "This is the letter, K., and--I haven't been able to say what I wanted, exactly. You'll let him know, won't you, how I feel, and how I blame myself?"

  K. promised gravely.

  "And the most remarkable thing has happened. What a day this has been! Somebody has sent Johnny Rosenfeld a lot of money. The ward nurse wants you to come back."

  The ward had settled for the night. The well-ordered beds of the daytime were chaotic now, torn apart by tossing figures. The night was hot and an electric fan hummed in a far corner. Under its sporadic breezes, as it turned, the ward was trying to sleep.

  Johnny Rosenfeld was not asleep. An incredible thing had happened to him. A fortune lay under his pillow. He was sure it was there, for ever since it came his hot hand had clutched it.

  He was quite sure that somehow or other K. had had a hand in it. When he disclaimed it, the boy was bewildered.

  "It'll buy the old lady what she wants for the house, anyhow," he said. "But I hope nobody's took up a collection for me. I don't want no charity."

  "Maybe Mr. Howe sent it."

  "You can bet your last match he didn't."

  In some unknown way the news had reached the ward that Johnny's friend, Mr. Le Moyne, was a great surgeon. Johnny had rejected it scornfully.

  "He works in the gas office," he said, "I've seen him there. If he's a surgeon, what's he doing in the gas office. If he's a surgeon, what's he doing teaching me raffia-work? Why isn't he on his job?"

  But the story had seized on his imagination.

  "Say, Mr. Le Moyne."

  "Yes, Jack."

  He called him "Jack." The boy liked it. It savored of man to man. After all, he was a man, or almost. Hadn't he driven a car? Didn't he have a state license?

  "They've got a queer story about you here in the ward."

  "Not scandal, I trust, Jack!"

  "They say that you're a surgeon; that you operated on Dr. Wilson and saved his life. They say that you're the king pin where you came from." He eyed K. wistfully. "I know it's a damn lie, but if it's true--"

  "I used to be a surgeon. As a matter of fact I operated on Dr. Wilson to-day. I--I am rather apologetic, Jack, because I didn't explain to you sooner. For--various reasons--I gave up that--that line of business. To-day they rather forced my hand."

  "Don't you think you could do something for me, sir?"

  When K. did not reply at once, he launched into an explanation.

  "I've been lying here a good while. I didn't say much because I knew I'd have to take a chance. Either I'd pull through or I wouldn't, and the odds were--well, I didn't say much. The old lady's had a lot of trouble. But now, with THIS under my pillow for her, I've got a right to ask. I'll take a chance, if you will."

  "It's only a chance, Jack."

  "I know that. But lie here and watch these soaks off the street. Old, a lot of them, and gettin' well to go out and starve, and--My God! Mr. Le Moyne, they can walk, and I can't."

  K. drew a long breath. He had started, and now he must go on. Faith in himself or no faith, he must go on. Life, that had loosed its hold on him for a time, had found him again.

  "I'll go over you carefully to-morrow, Jack. I'll tell you your chances honestly."

  "I have a thousand dollars. Whatever you charge--"

  "I'll take it out of my board bill in the new house!"

  At four o'clock that morning K. got back from seeing Joe off. The trip had been without accident.

  Over Sidney's letter Joe had shed a shamefaced tear or two. And during the night ride, with K. pushing the car to the utmost, he had fe
lt that the boy, in keeping his hand in his pocket, had kept it on the letter. When the road was smooth and stretched ahead, a gray-white line into the night, he tried to talk a little courage into the boy's sick heart.

  "You'll see new people, new life," he said. "In a month from now you'll wonder why you ever hung around the Street. I have a feeling that you're going to make good down there."

  And once, when the time for parting was very near,--"No matter what happens, keep on believing in yourself. I lost my faith in myself once. It was pretty close to hell."

  Joe's response showed his entire self-engrossment.

  "If he dies, I'm a murderer."

  "He's not going to die," said K. stoutly.

  At four o'clock in the morning he left the car at the garage and walked around to the little house. He had had no sleep for forty-five hours; his eyes were sunken in his head; the skin over his temples looked drawn and white. His clothes were wrinkled; the soft hat he habitually wore was white with the dust of the road.

  As he opened the hall door, Christine stirred in the room beyond. She came out fully dressed.

  "K., are you sick?"

  "Rather tired. Why in the world aren't you in bed?"

  "Palmer has just come home in a terrible rage. He says he's been robbed of a thousand dollars."

  "Where?"

  Christine shrugged her shoulders.

  "He doesn't know, or says he doesn't. I'm glad of it. He seems thoroughly frightened. It may be a lesson."

  In the dim hall light he realized that her face was strained and set. She looked on the verge of hysteria.

  "Poor little woman," he said. "I'm sorry, Christine."

  The tender words broke down the last barrier of her self-control.

  "Oh, K.! Take me away. Take me away! I can't stand it any longer."

  She held her arms out to him, and because he was very tired and lonely, and because more than anything else in the world just then he needed a woman's arms, he drew her to him and held her close, his cheek to her hair.

  "Poor girl!" he said. "Poor Christine! Surely there must be some happiness for us somewhere."

  But the next moment he let her go and stepped back.

  "I'm sorry." Characteristically he took the blame. "I shouldn't have done that--You know how it is with me."

  "Will it always be Sidney?"

  "I'm afraid it will always be Sidney."

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Johnny Rosenfeld was dead. All of K.'s skill had not sufficed to save him. The operation had been a marvel, but the boy's long-sapped strength failed at the last.

  K., set of face, stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he was going. He roused from the coma and smiled up at Le Moyne.

  "I've got a hunch that I can move my right foot," he said. "Look and see."

  K. lifted the light covering.

  "You're right, old man. It's moving."

  "Brake foot, clutch foot," said Johnny, and closed his eyes again.

  K. had forbidden the white screens, that outward symbol of death. Time enough for them later. So the ward had no suspicion, nor had the boy.

  The ward passed in review. It was Sunday, and from the chapel far below came the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again he did not open his eyes.

  "You're some operator, Mr. Le Moyne. I'll put in a word for you whenever I get a chance."

  "Yes, put in a word for me," said K. huskily.

  He felt that Johnny would be a good mediator--that whatever he, K., had done of omission or commission, Johnny's voice before the Tribunal would count.

  The lame young violin-player came into the ward. She had cherished a secret and romantic affection for Max Wilson, and now he was in the hospital and ill. So she wore the sacrificial air of a young nun and played "The Holy City."

  Johnny was close on the edge of his long sleep by that time, and very comfortable.

  "Tell her nix on the sob stuff," he complained. "Ask her to play 'I'm twenty-one and she's eighteen.'"

  She was rather outraged, but on K.'s quick explanation she changed to the staccato air.

  "Ask her if she'll come a little nearer; I can't hear her."

  So she moved to the foot of the bed, and to the gay little tune Johnny began his long sleep. But first he asked K. a question: "Are you sure I'm going to walk, Mr. Le Moyne?"

  "I give you my solemn word," said K. huskily, "that you are going to be better than you have ever been in your life."

  It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens to be set around the bed, K. who drew the coverings smooth and folded the boy's hands over his breast.

  The violin-player stood by uncertainly.

  "How very young he is! Was it an accident?"

  "It was the result of a man's damnable folly," said K. grimly. "Somebody always pays."

  And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid.

  The immediate result of his death was that K., who had gained some of his faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was beset by his old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself again powers of life and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been no carelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that he had taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk and begged for it.

  The old doubts came back.

  And now came a question that demanded immediate answer. Wilson would be out of commission for several months, probably. He was gaining, but slowly. And he wanted K. to take over his work.

  "Why not?" he demanded, half irritably. "The secret is out. Everybody knows who you are. You're not thinking about going back to that ridiculous gas office, are you?"

  "I had some thought of going to Cuba."

  "I'm damned if I understand you. You've done a marvelous thing; I lie here and listen to the staff singing your praises until I'm sick of your name! And now, because a boy who wouldn't have lived anyhow--"

  "That's not it," K. put in hastily. "I know all that. I guess I could do it and get away with it as well as the average. All that deters me--I've never told you, have I, why I gave up before?"

  Wilson was propped up in his bed. K. was walking restlessly about the room, as was his habit when troubled.

  "I've heard the gossip; that's all."

  "When you recognized me that night on the balcony, I told you I'd lost my faith in myself, and you said the whole affair had been gone over at the State Society. As a matter of fact, the Society knew of only two cases. There had been three."

  "Even at that--"

  "You know what I always felt about the profession, Max. We went into that more than once in Berlin. Either one's best or nothing. I had done pretty well. When I left Lorch and built my own hospital, I hadn't a doubt of myself. And because I was getting results I got a lot of advertising. Men began coming to the clinics. I found I was making enough out of the patients who could pay to add a few free wards. I want to tell you now, Wilson, that the opening of those free wards was the greatest self-indulgence I ever permitted myself. I'd seen so much careless attention given the poor--well, never mind that. It was almost three years ago that things began to go wrong. I lost a big case."

  "I know. All this doesn't influence me, Edwardes."

  "Wait a moment. We had a system in the operating-room as perfect as I could devise it. I never finished an operation without having my first assistant verify the clip and sponge count. But that first case died because a sponge had been left in the operating field. You know how those things go; you can't always see them, and one goes by the count, after reasonable caution. Then I lost another case in the same way--a free case.

  "As well as I could tell, the precautions had not been relaxed. I was doing from four to six cases a day. After the second one I almost went crazy. I made up my mind, if there was ever another, I'd give up and go away."

  "There was another?"

  "Not for several months. When the last case died, a free case again, I performed my own autopsy. I allowed only m
y first assistant in the room. He was almost as frenzied as I was. It was the same thing again. When I told him I was going away, he offered to take the blame himself, to say he had closed the incision. He tried to make me think he was responsible. I knew--better."

  "It's incredible."

  "Exactly; but it's true. The last patient was a laborer. He left a family. I've sent them money from time to time. I used to sit and think about the children he left, and what would become of them. The ironic part of it was that, for all that had happened, I was busier all the time. Men were sending me cases from all over the country. It was either stay and keep on working, with that chance, or--quit. I quit." "But if you had stayed, and taken extra precautions--"

  "We'd taken every precaution we knew."

  Neither of the men spoke for a time. K. stood, his tall figure outlined against the window. Far off, in the children's ward, children were laughing; from near by a very young baby wailed a thin cry of protest against life; a bell rang constantly. K.'s mind was busy with the past--with the day he decided to give up and go away, with the months of wandering and homelessness, with the night he had come upon the Street and had seen Sidney on the doorstep of the little house.

  "That's the worst, is it?" Max Wilson demanded at last.

  "That's enough."

  "It's extremely significant. You had an enemy somewhere--on your staff, probably. This profession of ours is a big one, but you know its jealousies. Let a man get his shoulders above the crowd, and the pack is after him." He laughed a little. "Mixed figure, but you know what I mean."

  K. shook his head. He had had that gift of the big man everywhere, in every profession, of securing the loyalty of his followers. He would have trusted every one of them with his life.

  "You're going to do it, of course."

  "Take up your work?"

  "Yes."

  He stirred restlessly. To stay on, to be near Sidney, perhaps to stand by as Wilson's best man when he was married--it turned him cold. But he did not give a decided negative. The sick man was flushed and growing fretful; it would not do to irritate him.

  "Give me another day on it," he said at last. And so the matter stood.