A middle-aged man with hair beginning to go grey and lines on his face, the pallor of his skin proclaimed that the doctor was both over-worked and under-fed.
However, beneath his careworn exterior he was not only a good doctor, he was a good judge of character. Although he knew Harry Carrington for what he was, a man who lived off the earnings of the women to whom he made love, he still liked him.
Harry was a ne’er-do-well, a man who had never done a day’s work in his life, but he was a gentleman by birth and he had a charm that for women was inescapable.
He also, Dr. Medwin thought, had the decency to stand by Katie King at this moment in her life when, if she had been left alone with her own fears, she might easily have killed herself.
The Thames that formed the northern boundary of Dr. Medwin’s large practice in Lambeth had received several of his patients who could not face life after they knew the truth about their health.
Harry was leaning over the rickety banisters as Dr. Medwin came out of Katie’s room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
“What is the verdict?” Harry asked tensely.
“Bad!”
“That is what I expected.”
“So did I, but I had to have it confirmed. The tests show undoubtedly a cancerous growth.”
“What can you do about it?”
“Very little, I am afraid.” Dr. Medwin sighed.
“It seems terrible to say that of a woman who is not much over twenty-three years of age and who is as lovely as Katie King.”
“Surely there must be something you can do?”
“I can make sure she does not suffer too much, but I will not pretend to you that the pains will not grow more and more acute and only drugs will keep her from experiencing the full agony of them.”
“Is that all?” Harry asked in a dull voice.
“If you were rich I could give you a different answer,” Dr. Medwin said. “There is new hope for those who undergo surgery which was raised about five years ago, by the revolutionary ideas of a man called Joseph Lister.”
“I believe I have read about him.”
“He has written a paper on his belief that antiseptics can prevent putrefaction in surgical wounds and his theories are borne out by what a man called Louis Pasteur is saying in France.”
“And yet this does not apply in Katie’s case?”
“Where Miss King is concerned,” Dr. Medwin said, “the only thing I can do is to send her to one of our local hospitals, where there is a bed available.”
He paused before he went on,
“They admit that the chance of coming out alive after any operation is not more than 50/50, but I can assure you, from my personal experience, it is far less.”
“That is what I have heard,” Harry said savagely, “and I wouldn’t let an animal endure the conditions to be found in those hospitals.”
“Exactly!” Dr. Medwin agreed.
Both men were silent and Dr. Medwin was thinking about sepsis and how often he had to watch the skin and flesh round a wound become red, hot and swollen.
Gradually it would turn black with gangrene, foul-smelling fluid and pus would seep out and the patient would shiver, run a high fever, and it would all end in death.
It was as if Harry had followed his thoughts, for he asked,
“You say there is an alternative?”
“There is one surgeon at the moment who is working on Lister’s methods and he has his own private nursing home.”
“What is his name?”
“Sheldon Curtis, and he is not only a first class surgeon but by using carbolic acid as an antiseptic, during and after surgery, I am told that he has cut the deaths that occur of those in his hands, to fewer than five per cent.”
There was silence, then Harry asked tersely
“How much does he charge?”
“With his Nursing Home fees he would not consider a patient at under £200.”
Harry gave a short laugh with no humour in it.
“At the moment I hardly have that amount in shillings.”
“Then as I have said,” Dr. Medwin remarked, “I will do my best to keep Miss King from suffering.”
“And what is she to do in the meantime?”
“Anything she likes, but she will not feel like moving about very much, and certainly not dancing. I am sorry, Carrington, but I knew you would prefer to know the truth.”
“Yes, of course.”
“It is no consolation,” Dr. Medwin added, “but I am about to have this same conversation with another patient whose condition I had tested at the same time as Miss King’s. I expect you have heard of him – he lives a little way up the road – Professor Braintree.”
“I seem to have read about him somewhere,” Harry remarked.
“A brilliant man, admired as an authority on 13th century literature by everybody in the intellectual world, which unfortunately does not make them buy his books.”
Dr. Medwin picked up his black bag, which he had put down on the floor while he was talking to Harry.
“Strangely enough, his daughter has hair of the same colour as Miss King’s. I think it is an extraordinary coincidence that I should have two patients with hair that is almost unique. To be honest, I can never remember seeing a woman with anything like that shade it until now.”
“It does seem strange,” Harry agreed. “In fact like you, until I met Katie, I didn’t know such a colour existed except on the canvas of some old master.”
“It is beautiful, absolutely beautiful,” Dr. Medwin said with a note of enthusiasm in his tired voice. “It is a pity, a great pity we cannot do more for Miss King, or for Miss Braintree’s father.”
He started to walk down the stairs and Harry followed him.
“What you are saying,” he said, “is that if Professor Braintree had the money, he could be operated on by this man Curtis and he could be saved, as Katie could.”
‘There is always a chance of course, that the cancer may have gone too far,” Dr. Medwin answered cautiously, “but if you want my professional opinion, both Miss King and the Professor could be saved if they could be operated on immediately, and by Sheldon Curtis.”
He had reached the narrow, rather dirty hall and paused before he opened the front door.
“I already know the answer,” he said, “but I have to ask you whether, after all I have said, you would like to take the risk of sending Miss King to hospital.”
“You know my reply to that,” Harry said. “If I thought she had the slightest chance I would jump at it, but I have heard of too many people dying in hospital after they have been butchered. If she has to die, let her die cleanly.”
“I thought you would say that,” Dr. Medwin answered. “Goodbye, Carrington, I wish I could have brought you better news. I will call in a day or so. Send for me if she is in any great pain.”
“Yes, of course,” Harry replied, “and thank you.”
The Doctor lifted his hand in acknowledgement, walked down the broken steps and turned towards another part of the neighbourhood where the houses were a little better than the one in which Katie lodged.
Harry walked very slowly back up the stairs to the second floor.
Outside Katie’s door he paused before he opened it and with a considerable effort before he went in, forced a smile to his lips.
“What did he say? He wouldn’t tell me. He said he’d tell you,” Katie said.
She was sitting up higher on her pillows, and with her red-gold hair falling below her waist she looked so lovely that for a moment Harry could only stare at her and wonder if it was possible that he had just heard her sentenced to death.
Then with a smile he said,
“The Doctor was very encouraging. Things are not as bad as he thought and he is coming again in a few days. He says by that time he is sure you will feel better.”
“Did he really say that? Really and truly?” Katie asked.
Harry sat down on the bed and put his arms around her.
“Do you think I would tell you a lie,” he asked. “You have to get well, darling, and quickly, or we are going to be very hungry, you and I!”
“Oh, Harry, once I am back on the stage I will work so hard that we’ll soon be living in luxury, and you can have that new suit you need.”
Katie could say no more because Harry was kissing her.
Then as he felt her go limp in his arms he knew he had excited her and said,
“I am not going to tire you, darling, not tonight, at any rate. I am happy just to look at you. The Doctor said just now how lovely you are.”
“They’ll be clapping me again when I go on the stage with my hair hanging down,” Katie said in a rapt little voice.
“The Doctor was saying he would have called it a unique colour,” Harry said, as if he spoke to himself, “if there was not another girl just up the road whose hair is exactly the same.”
“I don’t believe it!” Katie cried. “She got it out of a dye-pot!”
“Not according to the Doctor.”
“I’ll scratch her eyes out if her hair’s prettier than mine!”
“Don’t worry, my precious! There couldn’t be anyone with hair like yours.”
“That’s what the dirty old Duke said! An Enchantress, he called me. He used to write cards to go with the flowers saying, ‘To an Enchantress who draws me with every hair on her exquisite head!’”
Katie laughed to herself, then asked,
“Do you know what he said to me once?”
“What did he say?” Harry enquired without much interest in his voice.
“He said, ‘I have had three wives and outlived them all, and I would give any woman who could produce a son for me half my fortune, besides making her my Duchess.’”
“Three wives! From the way he behaved, he doesn’t deserve to propagate his own species!” Harry exclaimed.
Then he saw Katie’s expression and asked,
“Did you wonder if he had given you a baby?”
“Of course I did,” Katie answered, “but he was so bestial and so brutal I didn’t believe babies are born that way.”
“Nevertheless if you had produced a boy you could have been a Duchess.”
“I’d rather be with you, you old stupid! “ Katie laughed. She put out her hands towards him.
“You deserve a slap-up time after this, my Harry, and I’ll see you have it, if it’s the last thing I do!”
She took his hand and held it in both of hers.
“Today’s our lucky day,” she said. “Who knows? Perhaps when that old devil’s dead we’ll hear that he left me something in his will.”
Harry laughed.
Then suddenly he was tense, and Katie felt his fingers stiffen.
“What is it?”
“I have an idea!” Harry replied.
“What?”
“I will tell you later, but I think there might be something which will bring us the luck we’ve always needed.”
“Oh, tell me, Harry!”
“No. I’ve got to think it out.”
“I’ll die of curiosity!”
It flashed through Harry’s mind that she would die of cancer unless his idea was practical.
He rose to his feet.
“I am going out,” he said. “I’ll not be long.”
“I told you to go out and get some air,” Katie said. “While you’re gone, I’ll have a snooze.”
“That’s sensible.”
Harry bent down to kiss her on the cheek.
“You’re so kind to me, Harry,” Katie said softly with a little sob in her voice. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’ll come back, won’t you?”
“I am not going to answer such a ridiculous question,” he answered, “and I’ll buy something nice for supper.”
“With what?” Katie asked automatically.
Then she said,
“What about pawning my coat? By the time I’m up and about, I shan’t need it, and that old Shylock ought to give you a pound or more for it.”
Harry hesitated.
Then he said,
“All right. As you say, the weather will be warm next month and when you are well enough to go back to the theatre you could ask for your wages in advance.”
“Of course,” Katie agreed. “The coat’s hanging up behind the curtain, and before you go, could you give me a handkerchief? I think there’s one in my top drawer.”
Harry went to the rough deal chest-of-drawers that stood in one corner of the room.
He opened the drawer and saw that it was filled with a miscellaneous collection of ribbons, handkerchiefs, artificial flowers, and some tattered scarves.
He found a handkerchief and as he drew it out, he said,
“Did the Duke write you any letters?”
“He was always sending me notes telling me what time he’d be calling to take me out to supper. It was more of an order than an invitation. He never expected a girl to refuse anyone as important as himself.”
“Did you keep them?”
“Oh, I expect so. I keep everything. My mother used to say I was a born hoarder.”
“Where are they?”
“In the bottom drawer, with the programmes of the shows I’ve been in and the newspaper reviews. I’ve always kept them. I was actually mentioned in one or two.”
“You are sure there are letters from the Duke?”
“I think so, and there are the cards he used to send me with the flowers saying, ‘To my Enchantress!’ If I’d known what he was really like I’d have burned the lot!”
“But you didn’t?” Harry asked quickly.
“No, I was too lazy. Besides, when I was famous I was going to put them in my autobiography, ‘Seduced by a Duke!’ It certainly sounds like the title of a novelette, doesn’t it?”
Harry took her coat from behind the curtain. It had a collar of cheap fur and looked very different on the hanger than it did when Katie wore it.
“Ta-ta, darling! Don’t be long!” she said from the bed.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Harry replied. “You have a sleep, and that, by the way, is an order, even if it’s not a Ducal one! “
He heard her laugh as he shut the door.
*
“Larentia!”
“I am coming, Papa!”
Larentia Braintree picked up the coffee she had been making in the kitchen to climb the stairs to her father’s bedroom.
It was a pleasant room with two windows overlooking the road and a fairly high ceiling. In fact the tall house was far too big for them, but they could not afford to move.
“I have made you some coffee, Papa.”
“I dropped one of my papers on the floor,” Professor Braintree replied. “I am sorry to drag you upstairs, dearest, but I need it.”
“I wish you would stop working, Papa, and rest.”
Even as she spoke she thought with a slight constriction of her heart, that it did not matter what he did. Dr. Medwin had advised her not to tell him the truth, but encouraged her to let him believe he was getting better until the truth was forced upon him.
“Will he – suffer very acutely?” Larentia had asked.
“I will try to prevent the worst pains,” the Doctor replied, “but you must realise the drugs will have to be stronger and stronger until it will be impossible for him to think, or even recognise you.”
Larentia had gone very pale, but she had not cried out and the Doctor had admired her self-control.
“You must do what is – best for Papa,” she said. “Is there no other way we can – save him?”
“There is just a chance if he goes to hospital, Miss Braintree.”
“No! Not the hospital!” Larentia said in a horrified tone. “I have heard too many stories from the people round here of what they have suffered – or rather their relatives have. The death rate is appalling!”
“I agree with you,” Dr. Medwin said. “That is why, because I have the greatest admiration and r
espect for your father, Miss Braintree, I would rather he died in his own bed.”
“So would I,” Larentia agreed, “but – is there – no other way?”
Slowly, feeling for words, the Doctor explained, as he had explained to Harry, that the only hope was to pay a surgeon like Sheldon Curtis who used Lister’s methods of keeping the wound from a surgical operation from becoming infected.
“I have heard of this Mr. Lister,” Larentia said, in her soft voice, “and Papa was very interested in the work he has been doing in Edinburgh.”
“It is revolutionary!” Dr. Medwin agreed. He paused before he added “I suppose there is no chance, Miss Braintree, that you could find the £200 that would be required if I was to approach Mr. Sheldon Curtis on your father’s behalf?”
Larentia made a helpless little gesture with her hands.
“It would be impossible for us to find anything like that amount of money,” she said. “Papa’s relations are mostly dead, and those who are living are as impoverished as we are ourselves.”
She thought for a moment before she went on,
“As you may be aware, we do not own this house, we only rent it, and we have nothing valuable to sell which would fetch anything like that sum of money.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Papa was still in the middle of his latest book and, even if finished, I doubt if the publishers would give him a very big advance on it.”
She made a sound that was curiously like a groan.
“The things they write about Papa in the newspapers are very flattering, but his books do not sell because they are too clever! Few normal people want to read about mediaeval times or his wonderful treatise on King Arthur, a legendary hero who has always fascinated me.”
“And me, when I have time to think about him,” Dr. Medwin said, with a smile.
He looked at Larentia and thought again how beautiful she was.
Katie King had the flamboyant prettiness that is associated with the stage, and when she was well, her sparkling eyes, her laughing red mouth and her pert, turned-up nose made every man who saw her turn his head to look again.
Larentia Braintree had a different kind of beauty.
Her features were almost classically perfect and her large eyes, which had a glint of green in them, were soft and gentle, and gave her face a kind of spiritual loveliness, which the Doctor had never seen before.
The Goddess and the Gaiety Girl Page 2
