K

  CHAPTER XXVIII

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

  K., set of face, stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he wasgoing. 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 andsee."

  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. Timeenough 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 belowcame the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again he did notopen his eyes.

  "You're some operator, Mr. Le Moyne. I'll put in a word for you wheneverI 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., haddone of omission or commission, Johnny's voice before the Tribunal wouldcount.

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

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

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

  She was rather outraged, but on K.'s quick explanation she changed tothe 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 Johnnybegan his long sleep. But first he asked K. a question: "Are you sureI'm going to walk, Mr. Le Moyne?"

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

  It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens tobe set around the bed, K. who drew the coverings smooth and folded theboy'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. "Somebodyalways pays."

  And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid.

  The immediate result of his death was that K., who had gained some ofhis faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was besetby his old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself again powersof life and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been nocarelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that hehad taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk andbegged for it.

  The old doubts came back.

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

  "Why not?" he demanded, half irritably. "The secret is out. Everybodyknows who you are. You're not thinking about going back to thatridiculous 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 liehere and listen to the staff singing your praises until I'm sick of yourname! 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 doit and get away with it as well as the average. All that deters me--I'venever told you, have I, why I gave up before?"

  Wilson was propped up in his bed. K. was walking restlessly about theroom, 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 lostmy faith in myself, and you said the whole affair had been gone overat the State Society. As a matter of fact, the Society knew of only twocases. There had been three."

  "Even at that--"

  "You know what I always felt about the profession, Max. We went intothat more than once in Berlin. Either one's best or nothing. I had donepretty well. When I left Lorch and built my own hospital, I hadn'ta doubt of myself. And because I was getting results I got a lot ofadvertising. Men began coming to the clinics. I found I was makingenough out of the patients who could pay to add a few free wards. I wantto tell you now, Wilson, that the opening of those free wards was thegreatest self-indulgence I ever permitted myself. I'd seen so muchcareless attention given the poor--well, never mind that. It was almostthree 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 Icould devise it. I never finished an operation without having my firstassistant verify the clip and sponge count. But that first case diedbecause a sponge had been left in the operating field. You know howthose 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--afree case.

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

  "There was another?"

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

  "It's incredible."

  "Exactly; but it's true. The last patient was a laborer. He left afamily. I've sent them money from time to time. I used to sit and thinkabout the children he left, and what would become of them. The ironicpart of it was that, for all that had happened, I was busier all thetime. Men were sending me cases from all over the country. It was eitherstay and keep on working, with that chance, or--quit. I quit." "But ifyou 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 outlinedagainst the window. Far off, in the children's ward, children werelaughing; from near by a very young baby wailed a thin cry of protestagainst life; a bell rang constantly. K.'s mind was busy with thepast--with the day he decided to give up and go away, with the months ofwandering and homelessness, with the night he had come upon the Streetand 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 yourstaff, probably. This profession of ours is a big one, but you know itsjealousies. Let a man get his shoulders above the crowd, and the packis after him." He laughed a little. "Mixed figure, but you know what Imean."

  K. shook his head. He had had that gift of the big man everywhere, inevery profession, of securing the loyalty of his followers. He wouldhave 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 standby as Wilson's best man when he was married--it turned him cold. But hedid not give a decided negative. The sick man was flushed and growingfretful; it would not do to irritate him.

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

  Max's injury had been productive of good, in one way. It had brought thetwo brothers closer together. In the mornings Max was restless untilDr. Ed arrived. When he came, he brought books in the shabby bag--hisbeloved Burns, although he needed no book for that, the "PickwickPapers," Renan's "Lives of the Discip
les." Very often Max world dozeoff; at the cessation of Dr. Ed's sonorous voice the sick man would stirfretfully and demand more. But because he listened to everything withoutdiscrimination, the older man came to the conclusion that it was thecompanionship that counted. It pleased him vastly. It reminded him ofMax's boyhood, when he had read to Max at night. For once in the lastdozen years, he needed him.

  "Go on, Ed. What in blazes makes you stop every five minutes?" Maxprotested, one day.

  Dr. Ed, who had only stopped to bite off the end of a stogie to hold inhis cheek, picked up his book in a hurry, and eyed the invalid over it.

  "Stop bullying. I'll read when I'm ready. Have you any idea what I'mreading?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, I haven't. For ten minutes I've been reading across both pages!"

  Max laughed, and suddenly put out his hand. Demonstrations of affectionwere so rare with him that for a moment Dr. Ed was puzzled. Then, rathersheepishly, he took it.

  "When I get out," Max said, "we'll have to go out to the White Springsagain and have supper."

  That was all; but Ed understood.

  Morning and evening, Sidney went to Max's room. In the morning she onlysmiled at him from the doorway. In the evening she went to him afterprayers. She was allowed an hour with him then.

  The shooting had been a closed book between them. At first, when hebegan to recover, he tried to talk to her about it. But she refused tolisten. She was very gentle with him, but very firm.

  "I know how it happened, Max," she said--"about Joe's mistake and allthat. The rest can wait until you are much better."

  If there had been any change in her manner to him, he would nothave submitted so easily, probably. But she was as tender as ever,unfailingly patient, prompt to come to him and slow to leave. After atime he began to dread reopening the subject. She seemed so effectuallyto have closed it. Carlotta was gone. And, after all, what good could hedo his cause by pleading it? The fact was there, and Sidney knew it.

  On the day when K. had told Max his reason for giving up his work, Maxwas allowed out of bed for the first time. It was a great day. A box ofred roses came that day from the girl who had refused him a year or moreago. He viewed them with a carelessness that was half assumed.

  The news had traveled to the Street that he was to get up that day.Early that morning the doorkeeper had opened the door to a gentlemanwho did not speak, but who handed in a bunch of early chrysanthemums andproceeded to write, on a pad he drew from his pocket:--

  "From Mrs. McKee's family and guests, with their congratulations on yourrecovery, and their hope that they will see you again soon. If theirends are clipped every day and they are placed in ammonia water, theywill last indefinitely." Sidney spent her hour with Max that evening asusual. His big chair had been drawn close to a window, and she found himthere, looking out. She kissed him. But this time, instead of lettingher draw away, he put out his arms and caught her to him.

  "Are you glad?"

  "Very glad, indeed," she said soberly.

  "Then smile at me. You don't smile any more. You ought to smile; yourmouth--"

  "I am almost always tired; that's all, Max."

  She eyed him bravely.

  "Aren't you going to let me make love to you at all? You get away beyondmy reach."

  "I was looking for the paper to read to you."

  A sudden suspicion flamed in his eyes.

  "Sidney."

  "Yes, dear."

  "You don't like me to touch you any more. Come here where I can seeyou."

  The fear of agitating him brought her quickly. For a moment he wasappeased.

  "That's more like it. How lovely you are, Sidney!" He lifted first onehand and then the other to his lips. "Are you ever going to forgive me?"

  "If you mean about Carlotta, I forgave that long ago."

  He was almost boyishly relieved. What a wonder she was! So lovely, andso sane. Many a woman would have held that over him for years--not thathe had done anything really wrong on that nightmare excursion. But somany women are exigent about promises.

  "When are you going to marry me?"

  "We needn't discuss that to-night, Max."

  "I want you so very much. I don't want to wait, dear. Let me tell Edthat you will marry me soon. Then, when I go away, I'll take you withme."

  "Can't we talk things over when you are stronger?"

  Her tone caught his attention, and turned him a little white. He facedher to the window, so that the light fell full on her.

  "What things? What do you mean?"

  He had forced her hand. She had meant to wait; but, with his keen eyeson her, she could not dissemble.

  "I am going to make you very unhappy for a little while."

  "Well?"

  "I've had a lot of time to think. If you had really wanted me, Max--"

  "My God, of course I want you!"

  "It isn't that I am angry. I am not even jealous. I was at first. Itisn't that. It's hard to make you understand. I think you care for me--"

  "I love you! I swear I never loved any other woman as I love you."

  Suddenly he remembered that he had also sworn to put Carlotta out of hislife. He knew that Sidney remembered, too; but she gave no sign.

  "Perhaps that's true. You might go on caring for me. Sometimes I thinkyou would. But there would always be other women, Max. You're like that.Perhaps you can't help it."

  "If you loved me you could do anything with me." He was half sullen.

  By the way her color leaped, he knew he had struck fire. Allhis conjectures as to how Sidney would take the knowledge of hisentanglement with Carlotta had been founded on one major premise--thatshe loved him. The mere suspicion made him gasp.

  "But, good Heavens, Sidney, you do care for me, don't you?"

  "I'm afraid I don't, Max; not enough."

  She tried to explain, rather pitifully. After one look at his face, shespoke to the window.

  "I'm so wretched about it. I thought I cared. To me you were the bestand greatest man that ever lived. I--when I said my prayers, I--But thatdoesn't matter. You were a sort of god to me. When the Lamb--that's oneof the internes, you know--nicknamed you the 'Little Tin God,' I wasangry. You could never be anything little to me, or do anything thatwasn't big. Do you see?"

  He groaned under his breath.

  "No man could live up to that, Sidney."

  "No. I see that now. But that's the way I cared. Now I know that Ididn't care for you, really, at all. I built up an idol and worshipedit. I always saw you through a sort of haze. You were operating, witheverybody standing by, saying how wonderful it was. Or you were comingto the wards, and everything was excitement, getting ready for you. Iblame myself terribly. But you see, don't you? It isn't that I think youare wicked. It's just that I never loved the real you, because I neverknew you."

  When he remained silent, she made an attempt to justify herself.

  "I'd known very few men," she said. "I came into the hospital, and fora time life seemed very terrible. There were wickednesses I had neverheard of, and somebody always paying for them. I was always asking, Why?Why? Then you would come in, and a lot of them you cured and sent out.You gave them their chance, don't you see? Until I knew about Carlotta,you always meant that to me. You were like K.--always helping."

  The room was very silent. In the nurses' parlor, a few feet down thecorridor, the nurses were at prayers.

  "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want," read the Head, her voicecalm with the quiet of twilight and the end of the day.

  "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside thestill waters."

  The nurses read the response a little slowly, as if they, too, wereweary.

  "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death--"

  The man in the chair stirred. He had come through the valley of theshadow, and for what? He was very bitter. He said to himself savagelythat they would better have let him die. "You say you never loved mebecause you never knew
me. I'm not a rotter, Sidney. Isn't it possiblethat the man you, cared about, who--who did his best by people and allthat--is the real me?"

  She gazed at him thoughtfully. He missed something out of her eyes, thesort of luminous, wistful look with which she had been wont to surveyhis greatness. Measured by this new glance, so clear, so appraising, hesank back into his chair.

  "The man who did his best is quite real. You have always done the bestin your work; you always will. But the other is a part of you too, Max.Even if I cared, I would not dare to run the risk."

  Under the window rang the sharp gong of a city patrol-wagon. It rumbledthrough the gates back to the courtyard, where its continued clamorsummoned white-coated orderlies.

  An operating-room case, probably. Sidney, chin lifted, listenedcarefully. If it was a case for her, the elevator would go up to theoperating-room. With a renewed sense of loss, Max saw that already shehad put him out of her mind. The call to service was to her a call tobattle. Her sensitive nostrils quivered; her young figure stood erect,alert.

  "It has gone up!"

  She took a step toward the door, hesitated, came back, and put a lighthand on his shoulder.

  "I'm sorry, dear Max."

  She had kissed him lightly on the cheek before he knew what she intendedto do. So passionless was the little caress that, perhaps more thananything else, it typified the change in their relation.

  When the door closed behind her, he saw that she had left her ringon the arm of his chair. He picked it up. It was still warm fromher finger. He held it to his lips with a quick gesture. In all hissuccessful young life he had never before felt the bitterness offailure. The very warmth of the little ring hurt.

  Why hadn't they let him die? He didn't want to live--he wouldn't live.Nobody cared for him! He would--

  His eyes, lifted from the ring, fell on the red glow of the roses thathad come that morning. Even in the half light, they glowed with fierycolor.

  The ring was in his right hand. With the left he settled his collar andsoft silk tie.

  K. saw Carlotta that evening for the last time. Katie brought word tohim, where he was helping Harriet close her trunk,--she was on her wayto Europe for the fall styles,--that he was wanted in the lower hall.

  "A lady!" she said, closing the door behind her by way of caution. "Anda good thing for her she's not from the alley. The way those people begoff you is a sin and a shame, and it's not at home you're going to be tothem from now on."

  So K. had put on his coat and, without so much as a glance in Harriet'smirror, had gone down the stairs. Carlotta was in the lower hall. Shestood under the chandelier, and he saw at once the ravages that troublehad made in her. She was a dead white, and she looked ten years olderthan her age.

  "I came, you see, Dr. Edwardes."

  Now and then, when some one came to him for help, which was generallymoney, he used Christine's parlor, if she happened to be out. So now,finding the door ajar, and the room dark, he went in and turned on thelight.

  "Come in here; we can talk better."

  She did not sit down at first; but, observing that her standing kept himon his feet, she sat finally. Evidently she found it hard to speak.

  "You were to come," K. encouraged her, "to see if we couldn't plansomething for you. Now, I think I've got it."

  "If it's another hospital--and I don't want to stay here, in the city."

  "You like surgical work, don't you?"

  "I don't care for anything else."

  "Before we settle this, I'd better tell you what I'm thinking of.You know, of course, that I closed my hospital. I--a series of thingshappened, and I decided I was in the wrong business. That wouldn't beimportant, except for what it leads to. They are trying to persuade meto go back, and--I'm trying to persuade myself that I'm fit to go back.You see,"--his tone was determinedly cheerful, "my faith in myself hasbeen pretty nearly gone. When one loses that, there isn't much left."

  "You had been very successful." She did not look up.

  "Well, I had and I hadn't. I'm not going to worry you about that. Myoffer is this: We'll just try to forget about--about Schwitter's and allthe rest, and if I go back I'll take you on in the operating-room."

  "You sent me away once!"

  "Well, I can ask you to come back, can't I?" He smiled at herencouragingly.

  "Are you sure you understand about Max Wilson and myself?"

  "I understand."

  "Don't you think you are taking a risk?"

  "Every one makes mistakes now and then, and loving women have mademistakes since the world began. Most people live in glass houses, MissHarrison. And don't make any mistake about this: people can always comeback. No depth is too low. All they need is the willpower."

  He smiled down at her. She had come armed with confession. But the offerhe made was too alluring. It meant reinstatement, another chance, whenshe had thought everything was over. After all, why should she damnherself? She would go back. She would work her finger-ends off for him.She would make it up to him in other ways. But she could not tell himand lose everything.

  "Come," he said. "Shall we go back and start over again?"

  He held out his hand.