CHAPTER XLVI
DOCTOR Smalley was by way of achieving a practice. During his morningand evening office hours he had less and less time to read the papersand the current magazines in his little back office, or to compare themonth's earnings, visit by visit, with the same month of the previousyear.
He took to making his hospital rounds early in the morning, rather tothe outrage of various head nurses, who did not like the staff to comea-visiting until every counterpane was drawn stiff and smooth, everybed corner a geometrical angle, every patient washed and combed andtemperatured, and in the exact center of the bed.
Interns were different. They were like husbands. They came and went,seeing things at their worst as well as at their best, but mostly attheir worst. Like husbands, too, they developed a sort of philosophy asto the early morning, and would only make occasional remarks, such as:
"Cyclone struck you this morning, or anything?"
Doctor Smalley, being a bachelor, was entirely blind to the earlymorning deficiencies of his wards. Besides, he was young and had had acold shower and two eggs and various other things, and he saw theworld at eight A.M. as a good place. He would get into his little car,whistling, and driving through the market square he would sometimesstop and buy a bag of apples for the children's ward, or a bunch offall flowers. Thus armed, it was impossible for the most austere of headnurses to hate him.
"We're not straightened up yet, doctor," they would say.
"Looks all right to me," he would reply cheerfully, and cast an eagereye over the ward. To him they were all his children, large and small,and if he did not exactly carry healing in his wings, having no wings,he brought them courage and a breath of fresh morning air, slightlytinged with bay rum, and the feeling that this was a new day. A newpage, on which to write such wonderful things (in the order book) as:"Jennie may get up this afternoon." Or: "Lizzie Smith, small piece ofbeef steak."
On the morning after the election Doctor Smalley rose unusually early,and did five minutes of dumb bells, breathing very deep before hiswindow, having started the cold water in the tub first. At the end ofthat time he padded in his bare feet to the top of the stairs and calledin a huge, deep-breathing voice:
"Ten minutes."
These two cryptic words seeming to be perfectly understood below,followed the sound of a body plunging into water, a prolonged "Wow!"from the bathroom, and noisy hurried splashing. Dressing was a rapidprocess, due to a method learned during college days, which consistsof wearing as little as possible, and arranging it at night so that twothrusts (trousers and under-drawers), one enveloping gesture (shirt andunder-shirt), and a gymnastic effort of standing first on one leg andthen on the other (socks and shoes), made a fairly completed toilet.
While putting on his collar and tie the doctor stood again by thewindow, and lustily called the garage across the narrow street.
"Jim!" he yelled. "Annabelle breakfasted yet?"
Annabelle was his shabby little car.
Annabelle had breakfasted, on gasoline, oil and water. The doctorfinished tying his tie, singing lustily, and went to the door. At thedoor he stopped singing, put on a carefully professional air, restrainedan impulse to slide down the stair-rail, and descended with thedignity of a man with a growing practice and a possible patient in thewaiting-room.
At half-past seven he was on his way to the hospital. He stopped at themarket and bought three dozen oranges out of a ten-dollar bill he hadwon on the election, and almost bought a live rabbit because it lookedso dreary in its slatted box. He restrained himself, because hishousekeeper had a weakness for stewed rabbit, and turned into CardewWay. He passed the Doyle house slowly, inspecting it as he went, becausehe had a patient there, and because he had felt that there was somethingmysterious about the household, quite aside from the saturnine Doylehimself. He knew all about Doyle, of course; all, that is, that therewas to know, but he was a newcomer to the city, and he did not know thatDoyle's wife was a Cardew. Sometimes he had felt that he was undera sort of espionage all the time he was in the house. But that wasridiculous, wasn't it? Because they could not know that he was on theVigilance Committee.
There was something curious about one of the windows. He slowedAnnabelle and gazed at it. That was strange; there was a sort of whiterope hanging from Mrs. Doyle's window.
He stopped Annabelle and stared. Then he drew up to the curb and got outof the car. He was rather uneasy when he opened the gate and started upthe walk, but there was no movement of life in the house. At the foot ofthe steps he saw something, and almost stopped breathing. Behind a clumpof winter-bare shrubbery was what looked like a dark huddle of clothing.
It was incredible.
He parted the branches and saw Elinor Doyle lying there, conscious andwhite with pain. Perhaps never in his life was Doctor Smalley to be sorewarded as with the look in her eyes when she saw him.
"Why, Mrs. Doyle!" was all he could think to say.
"I have broken my other leg, doctor," she said, "the rope gave way."
"You come down that rope?"
"I tried to. I was a prisoner. Don't take me back to the house, doctor.Don't take me back!"
"Of course I'll not take you back," he said, soothingly. "I'll carry youout to my car. It may hurt, but try to be quiet. Can you get your armsaround my neck?"
She managed that, and he raised her slowly, but the pain must have beenfrightful, for a moment later he felt her arms relax and knew that shehad fainted. He got to the car somehow, kicked the oranges into thegutter, and placed her, collapsed, on the seat. It was only then thathe dared to look behind him, but the house, like the street, was withoutsigns of life. As he turned the next corner, however, he saw Doylegetting off a streetcar, and probably never before had Annabelle madesuch speed as she did for the next six blocks.
Hours later Elinor Cardew wakened in a quiet room with gray walls, andwith the sickening sweet odor of ether over everything. Instead of Olgaa quiet nurse sat by her bed, and standing by a window, in low-voicedconversation, were two men. One she knew, the doctor. The other, a tallyoung man with a slight limp as he came toward her, she had never seenbefore. A friendly young man, thin, and grave of voice, who put a handover hers and said:
"You are not to worry about anything, Mrs. Doyle. You understand me,don't you? Everything is all right. I am going now to get your people."
"My husband?"
"Your own people," he said. "I have already telephoned to your brother.And the leg's fixed. Everything's as right as rain."
Elinor closed her eyes. She felt no pain and no curiosity. Only therewas something she had to do, and do quickly. What was it? But she couldnot remember, because she felt very sleepy and relaxed, and as thougheverything was indeed as right as rain.
It was evening when she looked up again, and the room was dark. Thedoctor had gone, and the grave young man was still in the room. Therewas another figure there, tall and straight, and at first she thought itwas Jim Doyle.
"Jim!" she said. And then: "You must go away, Jim. I warn you. I amgoing to tell all I know."
But the figure turned, and it was Howard Cardew, a tense and strainedHoward Cardew, who loomed amazingly tall and angry, but not with her.
"I'm sorry, Nellie dear," he said, bending over her. "If we'd onlyknown--can you talk now?"
Her mind was suddenly very clear.
"I must. There is very little time."
"I want to tell you something first, Nellie. I think we have located theRussian woman, but we haven't got Doyle."
Howard was not very subtle, but Willy Cameron saw her face andunderstood. It was strange beyond belief, he felt, this loyalty of womento their men, even after love had gone; this feeling that, having oncelain in a man's arms, they have taken a vow of protection over that man.It was not so much that they were his as that he was theirs. Jim Doylehad made her a prisoner, had treated her brutally, was a traitor to herand to his country, but--he had been hers. She was glad that he had gotaway.
A Poor Wise Man Page 44
