Horace frowned, seeking a clue to this change of attitude, when their foregoing talk had been based on her tacit admission of her pregnancy. He had the answer when the door opened and Genter Latham appeared. For a man of his bulk, the magnate could walk lightly. He was alone.
“Murchison is in East Palmyra,” said he. “I’ve left word for him to call in the morning.”
“I can be here at any hour,” said Horace.
“No,” protested Wealthia. “Don’t let him, Pa. I don’t want him. Not two of them. Please, Pa!”
“Why should it be necessary for you to be present, Amlie?” demanded the father.
“It is customary.”
“I don’t care a fip for your custom. You can see Dr. Murchison after his call if you like.”
“Let me have this clear, Mr. Latham. Am I dismissed from the case?”
“Yes,” snapped Wealthia.
But some modification of doubt and caution remained to the father. “You are dismissed when I tell you you’re dismissed,” he said tartly.
Horace swallowed the affront. He was now resolved to maintain his hold upon the situation as long as possible, the better to thwart the skulduggery which he knew to be impending. That he was upon his defense, he well realized. If he was in error, or if it could be made to appear that he was, his career in Palmyra was ended.
All Dinty’s blandishments failed to rouse her husband from his somber preoccupations when he got home. He barely answered her anxious inquiries about her friend. No, the condition had not changed. No, Wealthia was not in danger. No, he could tell her nothing further; she’d better go to bed; he had some reading to do in his office. Dinty went, nose in air.
At breakfast he was hardly more amenable. Afterward he called in Dad Hinch to whom he gave low-voiced instructions, before withdrawing to the office. At ten o’clock the Human Teapot returned. Dinty, in her garden, heard him say,
“He’s there now, Capting.”
“At Mr. Latham’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get back to your watch. Let me know as soon as he leaves.”
The Teapot presented arms with an imaginary musket and marched away in military formation.
An hour later he was back again. Horace sought out Dinty.
“If anything urgent comes in, I’ll be at Dr. Murchison’s.”
Dinty gaped. “At Old Murch’s? Why, Doc! I thought you weren’t on terms.”
“This is not a social call,” returned her husband.
Horace had decided to let the older man set the tone of the interview. If he was hostile, it would be hammer and tongs from the start. If he was reticent, the caller would know how to force his hand. If he was amiable, the other would match him in courtesy as long as developments permitted.
The Murchison office was frowsty with dust and faint, bad odors when Horace was ushered in by the feeble old housekeeper. The doctor, said the beldame, had gone upstreet to give his opinion on a pipe of Hollands gin just arrived by freighter. Soon Old Murch came in. His beard was carefully parted; his hair gave off the delicately greasy redolence of pomatum. His smile was all suavity.
“Good morning, good morning,” he effused. “It is, indeed, a pleasure to see a colleague here.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” returned Horace, shaking hands.
“Yes, yes! We may have had our little differences in the past. But now, I venture to believe that our interests are one.”
“I am sure they are.”
“I have just come from the bedside of my patient—of our patient, Miss Latham.”
“Did you make an examination?”
“Er—yes.” Horace was sure that he had not.
“And you found?”
“The condition is less grave than the patient believes.”
“Self-diagnosis always exaggerates.”
“Always. Always. Cancer is not present. I am confident of it.”
“I agree.”
“Some sort of growth is responsible for the condition.”
“I agree.”
“Shall we predicate a soft tumor?”
“Again I agree.”
Dr. Murchison beamed. “An operation is plainly indicated.”
“What sort of operation have you in mind?”
“For the removal of the growth, certes, before it becomes occlusive.” He set his long, soiled fingers together by the tips and regarded Horace over the tops of his octagon-rimmed spectacles benignly. “Will you perform it, or shall I? Your young hands are steadier than my old ones.”
“Thank you, Dr. Murchison. But I think we may confidently trust to the growth to remove itself.”
The cheery confidence, born of Horace’s amenity, died out of Old Murch’s hirsute visage. “I do not apprehend you, Doctor.”
“There are soft tumors and soft tumors. It would be unfortunate for the operator if this one turned out to be a foetus.”
The old man reared back like a scared horse.
“Surely the likelihood must have occurred to you, since you made an examination,” proceeded Horace blandly.
“Sir! Doctor! You unman me. The daughter of our leading citizen!” babbled Old Murch.
“What has that to do with it?” said Horace impatiently.
“Sir, I decline, I positively refuse to entertain an idea so abhorrent.”
Horace’s tone changed. He spoke now with quiet but chilling emphasis. “Dr. Murchison, I put myself on record as warning you to perform no operation upon Wealthia Latham.”
“Intimidation,” blustered the senior. “This is unworthy of our noble profession.”
“Abortion,” said Horace clearly. “How do you like plain English?”
Without waiting for the reply, he left. His last impression of his colleague was that of a shriveling figure, a pendulous, bearded jowl, and hands that fumbled for a support that was not there. He was satisfied of having put the fear of God into the Old Fraud’s soul.
A note from Genter Latham was awaiting him at home. It was in the imperative mood. Dr. Amlie was to expect a call from the writer at two P.M. and was to be alone in his office.
On the previous evening the young man had been agreeably disappointed at his patron’s self-control. As to what lay back of it, he was in two minds. At times he thought that the father must surely suspect the truth. Again, he was ready to believe that the man’s arrogant pride and hardly less arrogant love would reject any suspicion of his daughter’s inchastity, short of irrefutable proof. Well, proof would be unhappily forthcoming in due period. During that encounter, Horace had forced upon himself an attitude of patience and diplomacy. Now, he decided, he would accept no further affronts from Genter Latham.
The clock was between stroke and stroke of two when the office door opened. Genter Latham strode in and stood, legs solidly planted far apart, his tall beaver unremoved from his head, little trickles of sweat making their way along the furrows of his brow.
“Your bill,” he grunted.
“Sit down, Mr. Latham.”
“Your bill,” I said. “You’re dismissed.”
“You shall have the bill in due time. There is still a matter between us.”
“I’ll have no further dealings of any kind with you.”
“Sit down, Mr. Latham,” repeated the physician imperturbably. “Believe me, it will be better for you to listen to me.”
“I can listen, standing. Say your say and be done with it.”
“I stand by my diagnosis. Wealthia will bear a child, probably in December.”
“God damn you for a liar!”
“Dr. Murchison knows what is wrong with her as well as I do. As well as, I think, you do in your heart.”
“God damn you for a liar and a fool!”
Horace came out of his chair in a single, lithe movement, crossed to the door and threw it wide.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head or get out,” he said.
Amazement paralyzed Genter Latham for a space of seconds. In a quarter century
of waxing power and hardening tyranny neither man nor woman had spoken to him after that fashion. His eyes flickered. He wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve and stared stupidly at the dark stain on the blue cloth. Horace, who was holding himself ready for a rush, thought, for a moment, that the bulky form was about to topple. He hurriedly pushed forward a chair into which the other let himself slowly down, still with an expression of incredulity on his swarthy countenance.
“What—what? What—what?” he muttered.
Horace reflected. “Then I am wrong,” he said. “You don’t know. You must, however, be aware that Wealthia expects Dr. Murchison to perform an operation upon her.”
“For the internal growth.”
“A criminal operation.”
“You’re a …”
“Wait! Dr. Murchison will not perform any operation.”
At this, Mr. Latham recovered himself. “So much for your cockahoop assurance,” he sneered. “He told me, himself, that an operation was necessary.”
“When did you last sec him?”
“This morning. After his call upon my daughter.”
“I have talked with him since. I assure you, Mr. Latham, that he will not touch your daughter. He dare not. I have warned him. Now, sir, I extend that warning to you. Procure an abortion upon her, and I will have you in a court of law the day she recovers—or dies.”
The big man quivered from head to foot. “Dies?” he whispered.
“The operation is dangerous as well as criminal. Do you wish me to quote authorities?”
“No.” Genter Latham pushed himself to his feet. “Now I will warn you. Speak one word against my daughter’s character and I’ll wait for no courts of law. I’ll kill you.”
“My professional oath binds me, not your threat,” returned the young man calmly. “If anything becomes public prematurely, it will be through yourself.”
“How through me?”
“I shall use every means to prevent the commission of a crime. If you take Wealthia away, I shall know why and shall take measures to trace her movements.”
“I have no intention of taking Wealthia away,” said the father heavily.
“Is that a bargain, Mr. Latham?”
“I will have no bargains with you, sir. My best advice to you is to leave Palmyra at once. Your usefulness here is ended.”
“Not my usefulness to myself. Or, perhaps, to others.”
“To everyone. I’m going to run you out of town.”
“Nobody is going to run me out of town till I get ready to leave,” retorted Horace, and his face was as ugly and dogged as his antagonist’s.
“Then stay and starve.”
“Tell me that in December,” said Horace.
Again he half expected an attack. But he could not resist the temptation of reprisal for what he had endured. The other’s reaction was quite unforeseen. His massive head went up. There was pride as well as wrath in his bearing as he said quietly,
“Wealthia is my daughter and her mother’s. I put my hand in the fire for her. If she—if what you have imagined about her should prove to be anything but the vapors of a foul invention, I will swallow my words and publicly apologize to you. Good day to you, sir, and may it be my last word.”
As he stalked out, Horace was moved to a reluctant admiration for his unshakable loyalty, his stupid and touching faith.
– 8 –
No great intelligence was required to tell Dinty that all was not well between Horace and his most important family. How deep the breach was she did not know until he said abruptly across the dinner table,
“I’m out of a job with the Lathams.”
“That’s too bad,” said Dinty.
“A difference over diagnosis.”
She held her peace.
“Mr. Latham called in Dr. Murchison.”
“That old noodlepate!”
“Noodlepate or not, his diagnosis was preferred to mine.”
“I think you know more than any doctor in the world,” said Dinty defiantly.
“Genter Latham doesn’t. He dismissed me like a lackey.”
“Because you wouldn’t knuckle down,” said she shrewdly.
“We’ll manage without ’em, Puss,” said he.
“Wealthy’s acting queerly,” observed Dinty. “I don’t understand her lately.”
“Be patient with her,” advised Horace. “Nerves,” he added vaguely.
In the fortnight after this talk, Dinty saw her friend only on the street. Being forthright by nature, she marched herself up to the stone house to make an issue. Wealthia came down, pale, languid and queerly apprehensive.
“Why haven’t you been to see me?” Dinty demanded.
“Pa wouldn’t like it.”
“Much that would stop you! You always do as you please.”
Wealthia’s deep eyes dimmed with tears. Dinty ran to her; threw comforting arms about her. “Wealthy! Dearie one! Are you so sick?”
“No. I’m—I’m better. What has your husband told you?”
“Nothing. He doesn’t talk to me about his cases.”
Wealthia detached herself and sat down heavily. “He and Pa have had a quarrel.”
“I know that much. They’ll make it up.”
“They’ll never make this up. Never.”
“Wealthy, you’re frightened,” said her friend pityingly. “Don’t you want to tell me what it is?”
The girl put her hand to her side. “Nobody will help me,” she said wretchedly. “Horace won’t. And now Old Murch won’t. They’ll be sorry when I die!” She began to sob.
“Darling! You’re not going to die. Horace says you’re not.”
“I don’t care whether I do or not. Oh, Dinty, let’s not talk about it.”
“No, honey,” said Dinty soothingly. “But I do think you look better than when I last saw you.”
“Do you? Do you truly? Sometimes I think I feel better. Then—I don’t know.”
“What do you hear from Kin?”
“He keeps begging to come here.”
“Naturally. Why don’t you let him?”
“I can’t bear to see him,” she answered somberly. “I can’t bear to have him see me. Not when I’m looking like this.”
“You’re lovely, Wealthy,” averred the loyal friend, not too untruthfully. “You’ve changed. Your face is thinner. But you’re just as beautiful. More so.”
“Faugh!” gulped the girl. “Sometimes I hate myself.”
“Write to him to come,” urged the caller. “It’ll do you good to see him.”
A strange look, which seemed to the startled Dinty to have in it the gleam of sheer, desperate terror, distorted the face before her.
“I have written.”
“When did you tell him to come?”
“He can come when he likes. He won’t come.”
“Of course he will!”
The other shook her head. “I’m tired,” she complained. “Most of the time now, I’m tired.”
Dinty rose and kissed her. “Come and see me,” she said. “You needn’t see Horace if that’s the way you feel.”
“Maybe I will, now that I’m feeling better,” was the listless reply.
Trouble in her mind was apt to drive Dinty to the woods. She could think better in the leafy solitudes. Back of the garden, the abrupt northern declivity of a drumlin overhung the Latham premises. Dinty made a detour to climb the gentler slope and reach a sheltered spot where she could sit and review the unsatisfactory and puzzling encounter.
Thanks to Tip Crego’s training, she could move through brush almost soundlessly. Having reached the summit she turned and was threading her way amidst a sparse scattering of whitethorn, when she halted, stiffening to attentiveness. A whiff of rank tobacco smoke had drifted downwind to her nostrils. She edged back of a thorn-clump and peered out.
A few rods ahead of her a sumach thicket extended to the brink of the hillock. At one spot the foliage was abnormally congested. She wormed
her way, bellywise, toward it. As she suspected, the hand of man had been at work. The slender, gray boles were bent and interlaced, the leafage above plaited to form an effective shelter against sun and rain. Beneath the cover, a man sat, puffing an ash-knurl pipe. It was Dad Hinch, the Human Teapot.
Dinty’s first thought was to withdraw as secretly as she had approached. A dull gleam of metal changed her mind for her. The Teapot’s service musket was propped within reach of his hand. Nothing in the way of game would be moving in the vista below. Therefore, to Dinty’s logical mind, it appeared alarmingly plain that if the exsoldier intended to shoot anything from his hiding place, it must be a human and presumptively a Latham. That she might, herself, be courting danger did not occur to her. In her view, the Teapot was no more than an irresponsible looby. She stepped out into the open, whistling. Dad Hinch jumped to his feet, stared about him, caught sight of her, and stood to attention.
“ ’Day to you, Mistress,” he said.
“Good day, Dad. What are you doing here?”
“Capting’s orders, ma’am,” said he importantly.
“Who are you going to shoot with that gun?”
“Nobody, Mistress. A good sojer allus carries his weepon.”
A flicker of white caught her notice. The Teapot had looped a length of string over a convenient twig. Knots at intervals indicated a pattern. Dinty required no exegesis to explain its purpose. This was a familiar recourse of gypsies, tenkers and other unlettered folk to keep record of fact, time and persons. The whole layout was patent enough to her now. Dad Hinch, an experienced scout and a faithful henchman of her husband, had been set on sentry duty to maintain a watch on the Latham family, make a record, and report to his principal. But what did it mean? What could it mean?
To attempt secrecy with her husband on this matter would be futile. The Human Teapot would assuredly have knotted her into his string. At supper she said,
“I saw Dad Hinch today.”
“Where?”
“On the knob, back of the Lathams’.”
He scowled. “What were you doing there?”
“I’d been to see Wealthia.”
“It’s a roundabout way home.”
“I felt like being alone.”
Canal Town Page 39
