“Do you tie people when you cut?”
“I don’t understand.”
“When you cut for the stone. And—and other things. You do it, don’t you?”
Horace had. He hoped he should never again have occasion to. The dreadful contortions, the blood and shrieks and agony, the writhing sinews and tortured nerves made up a memory which he was eager only to hold aloof.
“What leads you to suppose that you have the stone?” he demanded.
“I don’t. It’s worse,” she muttered. Her mind swung back to its original terror. “Tell me whether I must be tied.”
“You are tormenting yourself with needless fears,” he told her.
“I’m not! I’m not! Won’t you answer me?”
To calm her he went into a detailed description of the technic of internal operations, presenting it in as mild and reassuring a form as his conscience would permit. No, he did not believe in binding the patient. It was much safer to have assistants carefully hold the sufferer’s limbs to keep the body steady. Thus was obviated the danger of ruptured muscles or dislocated joints. Liquor could be given to inspire fortitude; opium was employed liberally to deaden the pain; local administration of ether paint did much to assuage the nerves. As he put forth his soothing euphemisms, he observed covertly her effort to keep herself under control. There was a reserve of courage in the spoiled and pampered daughter of fortune which he would hardly have expected. Quite calmly she said,
“I know what I’ve got.”
“Self-diagnosis is seldom reliable,” he returned.
“It’s the cancer,” she breathed.
“What leads you to suppose that?” he demanded, startled.
“I can feel it.”
“Where?”
“Here.” She pressed her hand against her slender body; not so slender as formerly, he now noticed for the first time.
“Why haven’t you spoken of this before?”
“I’ve been afraid to admit it to myself.”
“Take off your clothes.”
She shrank. “Must I?”
“Would you like me to call Dinty?” he asked tactfully.
“Oh, yes, please.”
Dinty entered, very businesslike, very serviceable, very much the physician’s helpmeet. Wealthy mustn’t think of her body, she explained. It meant nothing in that office; nothing more than one of the medical drawings she had studied or a wooden model of an arm or leg. She helped arrange the patient on the table, then withdrew to make up her barter lists.
Horace’s examination was exhaustive. It was also shockingly conclusive. Wealthia kept her eyes tight shut throughout, only gasping now and again. He helped her down to the floor.
“You may put on your clothes now,” he said.
“When will you cut?” she asked in a hard-breathed whisper.
“I shall not cut.”
“Why? Why?” she cried shrilly.
“I think you know very well why.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said she woodenly.
Horace busied himself making up some powders slowly, with the purpose of giving her time to compose her mind. Sifting them into a glass of water, he handed it to her. It was a placebo, the powders being quite inert. After she had swallowed the potion, he said gently,
“Don’t you think you’d better be honest with me, Wealthia?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“How can I help you if you take that attitude?”
“I’m not taking any attitude. I don’t know what …”
“Who is the man?”
She broke. “No! No! No! It isn’t that. It couldn’t be that.” She babbled out certain physiological details.
“I know, I know,” he said. “But these minor manifestations are apt to be misleading.”
Her voice rose hysterically. “It can’t be. I won’t let it be. It’s cancer. It must be cancer. Take it away from me, Horace. Take it away! Take it away!” She beat upon the table with clenched and frantic hands.
“Quiet!” he warned. “Try to control yourself. Now answer me. When were you exposed?”
“Exposed?” she repeated. Then, as his meaning became clear to her, she began to weep, quietly and desperately. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”
“I will see you tomorrow for further consultation,” he promised.
Calling Dinty to help her, he sent Wealthia home. He wanted time to think over this revelation. Was the girl deliberately attempting to deceive him, with her talk of cancer? Or, more probably, had she succeeded in deluding herself with false and forced hopes?
Dinty, who accompanied the caller to the gate, returned to the office.
“Wealthy says she is going to die. She isn’t, is she, darling?”
“No,” said Horace.
Experience had convinced her of the futility of further questioning when opposed by that tone. No direct reference was made to the matter again that day. After dinner Horace asked his wife in a casual tone,
“Do you remember the date of Kinsey Hayne’s visit to us?”
“April sixteenth,” she answered promptly. “Why?”
“Nothing.”
There was a knock at the office door. Unk Zeb brought in a note. It was from Genter Latham. Doctor was to come to the house at once. Horace was not surprised. He wondered what had happened. Had Wealthia confessed to her father? If so, there would be the devil to pay. But he doubted it. For that matter, had she confessed to him? Not categorically.
He found the great man pounding up and down his library, cursing as he strode. Bewilderment always translated itself into wrath in his autocratic soul. Anything beyond his comprehension he resented as a personal slur upon his power.
“I don’t know what’s come to that girl of mine,” he growled without troubling to acknowledge the caller’s good evening. “She’s gone to her bedchamber and won’t come out.”
“Shall I talk to her?”
“If she’ll see you. I doubt that she will.”
The two men climbed the stairs. Wealthia’s door was bolted. Mr. Latham knocked sharply.
“Dr. Amlie is here, daughter.”
“I don’t want him,” returned the petulant voice. “Tell him to go away.”
“Open at once.”
Silence within.
“You see.” The father turned upon Horace a visage dark with wrath and concern. “Never before in her life has she dared disobey me. I’m well-minded to smash in the door.”
“If you do,” threatened Wealthia’s hysterical voice, “I’ll jump out the window.”
“She’s like a crazed person.” The father spread helpless hands.
“Leave this to me,” said Horace.
Mr. Latham clumped sullenly away. Horace approached his mouth to the lintel.
“Wealthia?”
No reply.
“Wealthia, don’t be so foolish. I only want to help you.”
Through the crack beneath the door he could see the flicker of the approaching candle. Wealthia’s low voice asked, “Is my father there?”
“No.”
“You say you want to help me.”
“Believe me, I do.”
“There’s only one way you can help.”
“You must know I can’t do that.”
He heard a sob. Then, “It’s all lies, lies, lies, what you think. And if you tell my father, I’ll kill myself.”
He heard her receding footsteps and the creaking of the bed as she threw herself upon it.
Slowly and thoughtfully he descended to the parlor where Mr. Latham was awaiting him. In the ten seconds of his passage he had come to a decision of which neither Hippocrates, Æsculapius, or the N. Y. State Board of Medical Censors would have approved. He was about to overstep his proper province of medical advice to proceed upon the cloudy assumptions of family friendship.
“Has she come to her senses?” demanded the father.
Horace shook his head. “Mr. Latham, I shou
ld like your authorization to go to New York on your daughter’s case.”
“Is it as bad as that?” asked the father, his sanguine face paling.
“It is complicated rather than serious,” replied Horace, choosing his words with reference to effect more than exactitude. “There are eminent medical authorities in the metropolis who are concurrent with the latest developments of science, and always prepared to help a younger practitioner.”
“When can you go?”
“Tomorrow, if you wish.”
“I do. Spare no expense. If you want any of the bigbugs to see her, fetch ’em back. I don’t care what it costs.”
“That will hardly be necessary, I think. Good night, Mr. Latham.”
Dinty received the news of the projected trip with delight.
“Oh, Doc! How grand! I’ve been perishing to go to New York.”
“I’m afraid not this time, Puss.”
Her delight turned to dismay. “You’re going without me?”
“I must. There are special reasons.”
“What kind of a loving husband are you?” she demanded sorrowfully. “Leaving me behind to pine!”
“You won’t have to pine very long, darling. I shall be there only one night, then back by the next packet. Ten days in all.”
– 6 –
Canal packet to Albany, steam packet down the Hudson brought Horace Amlie to the metropolis with speed and comfort. He put up at Mr. William Syke’s favorably known hostelry and at once sent his name to Kinsey Hayne.
“The young gentleman is in the dining room, Doctor,” said the clerk. “Will you join him there?”
“I’ll wait,” said Horace.
He found a chair in the lobby, from which he contemplated the pageant of business, politics and fashion that filled the pillared room with noise and color, sitting there until the spare and elegant figure of the young Southerner appeared. Kinsey Hayne was smoking an imported Cuban segar, and swinging a gold-banded malacca cane with a costly and artistic knob. At sight of his erstwhile host, his face which Horace thought rather haggard, lighted up. He came forward, his hand outstretched.
“This calls for a libation,” he said.
Horace shook hands. “Where can we talk privately?” he asked.
“Follow me,” said his friend and led the way to the taproom, where he found an empty booth. “What may I offer you to drink?”
Horace made a negative gesture. “I want you to come back to Palmyra with me.”
If Kinsey was startled he did not show it. “When?” he asked.
“By tomorrow’s boat.”
“Impossible. Or, at least, most inconvenient.”
“It isn’t a matter of convenience, but of urgency. I think you have no choice.”
The other’s eyes narrowed and hardened. Horace thought that they became wary, too. Well, if this was to be a fencing match, there would be no buttons on the foils.
“I shall answer that after I have had an explanation,” said Kinsey.
“Wealthia,” said Horace.
His companion rose. “This is not the place to bring a lady’s name into the conversation.”
“Where you please,” returned Horace.
“My rooms are on the floor above.”
He led the way to what Horace guessed to be the most expensive suite in the tavern. Again he offered a drink, with more formality this time. Horace might have been a business caller or a casual stranger. The change in manner confirmed suspicions which hardly needed confirmation.
“Is Miss Latham ill?” he asked.
“You should know. You’ve heard from her, I presume.”
“Your presumption is your own concern. Did she send you here?”
“No.”
“Then I fail to understand your status.”
“Would it help if I remind you that I am the Latham family physician?”
“Then Miss Latham is ill?”
“She is pregnant.”
Kinsey turned very white. “I think you lie,” said he with cold deliberation.
“Upwards of three months, as I estimate.”
“I think you lie,” repeated the Southerner.
“Four months ago you were in Palmyra.”
“Are you going to swallow the lie from me?”
Horace’s patience cracked. “Damn you and your ‘lies.’ I’m thinking of my patient.”
“You are speaking of the young lady I hope and expect to make my wife and I say to you categorically that you lie. My friends will wait upon you this evening.”
“They can save themselves the trouble. You can’t shoot away your accountability with a pistol.”
Kinsey said impassively, “You have me at a disadvantage, Dr. Amlie. I am a gentleman, bound by the code which gentlemen observe. Must I cane you publicly on the streets?”
An unholy light burned in Horace’s eye. “I’d like to have you try it.” At a swift gesture from the other he added, “Wait! I haven’t taken a five-day journey to brawl with you. Do you deny that you are responsible for Wealthia’s condition?”
A veil of blankness, of secrecy and caution overspread the handsome features. “I deny nothing and affirm nothing,” was the stiff rejoinder. “Your preposterous accusation is unworthy of further discussion. I repeat my belief that you lie.”
“God give me patience! What possible object could I have in lying?”
Kinsey Hayne scanned him, frowning. “It is possible that you are under a delusion. Your conduct is equally infamous in impugning the virtue of my betrothed.”
“Will you come to Palmyra?”
“At my own convenience, sir.”
“Listen to me, Kinsey Hayne,” said Horace with such sincerity that the Southerner’s set face altered. “Your own convenience may be too late. She can’t hope to conceal her condition much longer.”
“Does anyone else know of …” began the other and checked his utterance, his face flaming. “Have you spoken of this to anyone?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then I must solemnly warn you not to.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, stop talking like the hero in a drama!” cried Horace in exasperation. “I shall certainly tell Mr. Latham in due time.”
“I forbid you.”
“Save your breath. Someone must tell him, and Wealthia will not.”
“But it can’t be,” muttered the young man, as if arguing to himself. “Wealthia would have con—would have confided in me. Her last letter was full of high spirits.”
“Because she is still cozening herself with false hopes.”
“Then she has admitted nothing?” said Hayne quickly.
“Not in so many words.”
“Because there is nothing to admit. There must be other causes for—for whatever symptoms have led you to your monstrous conclusions,” said Hayne with reviving spirit.
“There might be,” admitted the physician reluctantly. “It is always possible. But, when I tell you that she practically …”
“Then I am well convinced of your error,” broke in the other, “though I now admit that it may have been kindly in intention.” His manner was gentler now, but still aloof. “I shall visit Palmyra as soon as my business commitments permit.” He rose. “I bid you good day, sir.” He did not offer to shake hands.
On the return trip Horace had ample time to ponder over Kinsey Hayne and his attitude. He read Kinsey’s character as that of the Southern puritan, conscientious in principle, exact in honor, wholly dependable where he considered that responsibility involved him. If he had seduced Wealthia, of which Horace had no doubt, it must have been in an irresistible gust of passion which swept them both off their feet, and for which he would unhesitatingly make amends by marriage. Why, then, his violent resentment toward Horace’s errand?
That, too, the shrewd analyst could answer to his own satisfaction. Shamed by her misstep and, deep in her soul a little afraid of her fiancé despite his slavish devotion, Wealthia had concealed the truth from h
im. It was quite within the bounds of her self-delusive capacity that she should write, assuring him that all was well with her. To that thesis she would cling until hope and concealment alike should have become impossible. On his part, the Hayne code would bind Kinsey to suppress the facts of his relations with the girl and protect her good name at any cost. Further, his confidence in her would incline him to take her word as against the doctor’s assumptions. Hence his angry and obstinate rejection of Horace’s statement.
The whole picture was a plain pattern to Horace’s logical mind. Dinty’s welcome to the returned traveler proved that she harbored no resentment over his desertion. Except that he had seen Kinsey Hayne, who would soon be coming upstate, he said nothing of that phase of his trip, descanting upon his interesting call upon the famed Dr. Hosack (whom he had, in fact, visited) and his reading in the medical libraries. Horace’s conscience regarding professional secrecy was acute. On no consideration would he have breathed a hint of Wealthia Latham’s plight, even to Dinty.
To Genter Latham he reported that he had availed himself of the highest medical advice on his daughter’s case, and that there was no cause for alarm. Meanwhile Wealthia was up and about again and insisting to her father in lifeless tones that she had never felt better. She shunned Horace, pettishly refusing to submit to further examination or to answer questions. Speculating as to how far his eye was prejudiced by his knowledge, the physician thought her already visibly gravid, and was fearful that Genter Latham must soon notice the alteration in the lines of her body or, worse, that it might become a topic for the clattertongues of the feminine populace.
Days passed, but Kinsey Hayne did not arrive. A post came in from New York City by coachmail. There was no letter for Dr. Amlie.
One afternoon Dinty, who had been to the stone mansion to see her friend, greeted Horace with the small and sly smile which always put him on guard.
“Have all you M.D.’s a mission to run the world, darling?” she began.
“Only the extra wise ones,” he answered warily.
“Like my wonderful husband. Why don’t they keep their wisdom for their practice?”
“What have I been doing now?”
“Poking your long, red nose into other people’s private affairs.” She lightly kissed the tip of the maligned feature.
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