Testimony of Two Men

  "For her money."

  "Poor Myrtle. We mustn't vilify the dead."

  "Oh, certainly not. I wasn't vilifying Mrytle, Mother. I was vilifying Harald, if that's possible. A 'firm-minded girl'? Like Jenny, for instance."

  His mother looked at him strangely. It seemed incredible to her that Jonathan was so blind, he who was always astute and perceptive. "Jenny," she said, in her gentlest voice, "is a wonderful girl. I love her dearly. You are so harsh about her. You are quite wrong, and so is the town."

  "I know. An untouched lily. Never mind." He stood up.

  "Where are you going this unpleasant morning, dear?"

  "To try to badger that old—I mean, old Louis Hedler into accepting Bob Morgan on the staff of St. Hilda's." He paused. "I couldn't induce you to part with twenty-five thousand dollars, could I, to match my own twenty-five thousand dollars, for a new nurses' wing?"

  Marjorie raised her black brows. "That's a large bribe," she remarked. "For a young man you hardly know."

  "But you'll remember that you were considering that—a year ago." He looked at her, and they both remembered indeed that Marjorie and he were going to give that to the expensive private hospital—until the trial.

  "Yes," said Marjorie.

  "You'll let me mention that, then? They really need that wing, you know."

  Marjorie sighed. She played with the handle of the cup. Then she said, "Nothing, I suppose, will change your mind, Jonathan?"

  "Nothing."

  She said, "I want you to know this, dear. If you want me, Til go with you everywhere you go."

  "And leave sweet Jenny and darling Harald? Mother!"

  The pallor about her mouth increased. It was utterly beyond her training to reach out her hand impulsively, take her son's, draw him to her and kiss him, and let him know how dear he was to her. So she remained silent. After a moment or two she said, "Very well. I will keep the promise I made. But is it necessary?"

  "Yes. That's why I brought the matter up. Old Hedler's too close to Martin Eaton. Even if Eaton is still recovering from his stroke and just learning to walk again."

  He'll never forget, thought Marjorie, and never forgive. He was always a relentless little boy. She said, "How cruel of them. Jonathan, does Dr. Morgan deserve the effort you are making in his behalf?"

  "I think so. I hope so. By the way, his mother's arriving today. He never told me much about her, but I gather she's a —well—let me put it this way: a vulgar, pretentious, arch sort of woman. Yet his father was a gentleman. I hope to be able to rescue Bob from her, eventually, and get him married off to the firm-minded character you were referring to. A lady, however. On the other hand, maybe he needs a soft girl to bring out his latent virility."

  He bent stiffly and kissed his mother's forehead, and she gave him a cool kiss on the cheek. She watched him go. There was a pain in her which did not rise from her heart. She thought of Mavis Eaton, Jonathan's dead young wife, and her pale mouth parted in fresh suffering. She had never like Mavis, the vital, zesty, tantalizing, Laughing Girl. Pretty blond Mavis, so gleeful of voice, so alive and vivid, so stupid and cuddling and cruel! How Jonathan had adored her. How strange it was for Jonathan, who was so perceptive, not to have known all about Mavis at once, even when she was a child. But men were peculiar when it came to women. The dullest woman could deceive the most intelligent man. Marjorie had subtly expressed her disapproval to Jonathan a thousand times before the wedding but had aroused only his anger and indignation. She had attended the wedding, calm, serene, smiling, while she had cried inwardly and with foreboding. She had accepted Mavis into her house, after the honeymoon, and had behaved toward the girl with kindness and affection. It had been no use at all.

  Marjorie shuddered. She pressed her hands hard over her eyes, leaned her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands. She dared not say a word. One word would bring disaster, and it must never be spoken.

  "Well, now," said Dr. Hedler, "the diploma-mill hack," as Jonathan called him. "That's a magnificent offer, my boy, really magnificent! So good of you and charming Marjorie. But she was always generous. I knew her in Philadelphia, you know, and her family."

  "Yes, I know. Nearly everyone knew my mother 'in Philadelphia,' to hear them tell it," said Jonathan. He could not help it; he said, "I'm sorry about your sister-in-law, by the way."

  The soft, fat, elderly face across from him changed, and the bulging brown eyes pointed in a hard fashion at Jonathan. But Dr. Hedler sighed and said, "Yes. Too bad. But there was no way of finding out that she had cancer before the operation. We could only sew her up and lie to her."

  Jonathan had been regretting his remark, a brutal one, but now he knew that he was, in fact, applying a little blackmail, and that he was dangerous to Dr. Hedler. Good. For Dr. Hedler knew that Jonathan had made the diagnosis of possible carcinoma over a year ago and been ignored, and among the more urbanely ridiculing had been Dr. Hedler himself. Dr. Hedler might be Chief-of-Staff at St. Hilda's, but everyone was aware of his "medical" background, especially the younger physicians, and everyone, even his enemies, knew that Dr. Ferrier was a famous surgeon and diagnostician, and that his diagnosis had been verified in the operating room. Yes, I'm a dangerous type, thought Jonathan, with pleasure.

  They were sitting in the dignified but luxurious Chief-of-Staff's office, all paneled wood, heavy crimson velvet draperies, burning fire in a black marble fireplace, rich Brussels rug, and handsome pictures and excellent dark mahogany furniture. It had begun to rain, a warm murmurous rain mysteriously full of promise. It ran down the tall windows in silvery rivulets.

  "I have a feeling about cancer," said Jonathan, very grave. "About six people out of ten thousand die of it, in one form or another. That's comparatively few, compared with the other killers, such as diarrhea and tuberculosis. And pneumonia and influenza and diphtheria. These are our present murderers, while cancer is rare in comparison. It won't always be that way. Twenty years ago one person in ten thousand died of it. In forty or fifty years? As we conquer one disease another takes its place. Balance of nature. But cancer is the foulest disease of all."

  "It will always be rare," said Dr. Hedler, with the indulgence of the experienced toward the more youthful and inexperienced. "And it only affects the very old in most cases, though Georgia isn't old, I admit. However, she isn't very young either. Do you know that she's only the tenth case I have seen in all my long years of practice?"

  I wouldn't doubt it for a moment, thought Jon without charity. But he only nodded his head.

  "I've heard of only one case of leukemia," said Dr. Hedler.

  "I've had about eight," said Jonathan. "I think that form of cancer is increasing, too."

  Dr. Hedler smiled and shook his head. "I doubt it. Well. Let us look again at young Dr. Morgan's credentials. Um." He put on his pince-nez. "Interned at Johns Hopkins. That's very nice." He sighed with a sound of soft suet moving. "I did take it up before with Martin Eaton, you know."

  "And he turned down his thumb."

  Dr. Hedler was pained. "Jon, he's a very reasonable man, and he did found St. Hilda's, and it's his pride and joy. Gave a quarter of a million dollars—a huge sum! I showed him Dr. Morgan's credentials. He, er, said the staff is filled."

  "Closed staff. Curse of hospitals," said Jonathan with contempt. "We need all the physicians and surgeons we can get for Hambledon and the surrounding territory. Keep the newcomers out and off the staff, and we won't be able to meet the demand. And the hospitals we have will deteriorate."

  "We have to protect the income of the staff, Jon."

  "Protect the staff's income. Let the public be damned. Who said that? Was it old J. P. Morgan, or one of the Vanderbilts? It doesn't matter. The public deserves better treatment from its doctors and its hospitals. What're we here for, anyway?"

  "We can't let the new young doctors enthusiastically fill up all our beds! They love that Gives them a reputation. What of the people who really need beds?"

&nbs
p; "We can always intrude our own judgment if a boy gets too ambitious," said Jonathan. "Now, old Martin. He's acting out of spite, and you know it Louis. I know the other members of the staff will go along with you, if you say so and give Bob Morgan your approval. Old Martin's been domineering you for years; we all know that. Show your independence."

  Dr. Hedler turned dark red, but he controlled his fury. "One of these days, my boy, your tongue will hang you." He stopped abruptly. But Jonathan only grinned.

  "It almost did once," he said. "We're getting off the subject. Hambledon's growing; so is the whole territory around here. Industry moving in. The medical population has to grow, too, to keep up. Keep denying young doctors a place on the hospital staffs and they'll have to go somewhere else, and Hambledon's the loser. We're lucky to have a fellow like Bob Morgan applying. Let's get some fresh air in this town."

  He waited. Dr. Hedler did not speak. "Come on, Louis," said Jonathan, with impatience. "Old Martin will never be able to practice again, and you know it. If you go over his head, and you have the right to, as Chief-of-Staff, there'll be some indignant growling, and then it will be forgotten. Besides, I'm leaving, as you know damned well. Who are you privately considering to replace me?"

  Before he could stop himself, Dr. Hedler said, "Martin has someone in mind. He will finish his internship in December."

  "What hospital?"

  But Dr. Hedler merely shook his head. He looked again at the credentials. Jon said, "Fifty thousand dollars. Where are you going to get that much so soon? Off the street?"

  Dr. Hedler silently stared down at the credentials. "Look here," said Jonathan, "take Bob Morgan. Or I'll stay here on the staff and where will Martin's precious protégé be then? I'll tell you something: If I stay, old Martin's going to blow out another cerebral artery. Not that that wouldn't be a good idea in the long run, or maybe even the short run. You'll be doing him a real favor, Louis, if you take my choice."

  "When you put it that way— Yes, I can see what you mean. Give me another opportunity to talk with him, Jon. And, as you said, fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, and we need the nurses' wing practically at once." Dr. Hedler became genial. "Let me thank you, Jon. And Marjorie."

  So, it's all right, thought Jon. Blackmail, bribe, a chance for revenge. Who can resist all these? Not old Louis!

  "No, no, no flowers," said Robert Morgan to the hotel manager who had just brought in a mighty vase of highly scented field roses, as red as blood and furious with life. "My mother is sensitive to all flowers. But thank you, anyway." He looked longingly at the roses. They reminded him of Jenny Heger. He added, "I'd like them in my own room, though." He would never see roses again without thinking of Jenny. The very thought of her was poignant to him.

  He was in the best suite the modest hotel could offer. His mother would be pleased. It had a large sitting and dressing room, all clean, fresh, if undistinguished furniture, brown velvet draperies, red Turkey rug, polished windows. He peeped into the bedroom and saw the big brass bed with its brown velvet counterpane and bolster, its good decorated china and sturdy commode, its thick towels and fine linen hand-towels. Not splendid but more than adequate.

  "We'll be happy to welcome Mrs. Morgan, Doctor," said the hotel manager. "Tell her, in my name, that the hotel services are hers to command!"

  And she'll certainly command them, thought Robert, and was at once ashamed.

  "You haven't found a suitable house yet, Doctor?"

  "Not yet. But I have four in mind, and when my mother comes, we'll choose among them."

  "We'll be sorry to lose you, Doctor." The door closed after the manager. Robert returned to his own room. It seemed uncommonly small and bare to him, in the dull dusk of the rainy day. He looked at his watch. His mother would arrive at the station in one hour. He must look for a hack at once; they had a way of being invisible when it rained. He put on his hat—and his gloves—and ran lightly to the elevator. He had remembered to put his white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and to wear the infernal frock coat and striped trousers which his mother felt to be the only uniform for a doctor. He even took his cane with him. He looked at himself in the elevator mirror as he went creakingly down. He had trimmed his mustache very closely this morning. This would definitely displease dear Mama, who would have preferred him with a full red beard. Proper beard for a doctor.

  Only an hour ago Jonathan Ferrier had had him called to the hotel telephone to tell him that he was practically certain that he, Bob Morgan, would be named to the staff of St. Hilda's. And. very soon, to the staff of the Friends' Hospital. "A matter of a few days," said Jonathan. "I thought you should know."

  "It's very kind of you," said Robert.

  You don't know how damned and expensively kind it was! thought Jonathan, a little annoyed that the young doctor should take it all so casually. He said, "You're very lucky."

  Robert was puzzled. He said, "Well, I was always told I was born under a lucky star! Hello?" But Jonathan had hung up the receiver Robert stared at the telephone. These small towns! Central was always disconnecting people. He did not think of that call as he went down the elevator. It had never

  occurred to him that he would not be accepted on the staff of the hospitals. It did not occur to him now. Had Jonathan had another but unsaid reason to call him? What? Robert had found himself thinking of Jenny Heger again. It was odd that she came into his mind so regularly and that he could see her beautiful face so clearly, and her amazing blue eyes, and the way she moved, and her tumble of black and curling hair. It was unpardonable of Jon Ferrier to bait her so cruelly and despise her so openly. Robert forgot all the gossip he had heard in Hambledon about Jenny and Harald Ferrier. He could only resent Jonathan.

  Jonathan spent the dingy cool afternoon in his offices, in the long preparation for his departure from Hambledon forever.

  His mother had built the premises for him as a gift when he had set up practice ten years ago. Like the house where he had been born, and his father and grandfather before him, it was built of red brick with white and brass trimmings, a single-story structure nearly three acres from the house, with a dark slate roof. It was not that Marjorie overly disliked the thought of her son having his offices in the large house where they lived, for now there were but two in the family, with two servants, and there were many rooms which could have been utilized. But she knew that Jonathan was a "private" person like herself, resenting propinquity which they both considered vulgar and not dignified and a little nonhuman. "The precious thing which distinguishes man from the lower animals," she would say, "is his love for privacy, for aloneness, his liking for occasional solitude away from his bellowing fellows. It is bestial to huddle, to peer into each other's pots, to mind another's business, to interfere 'lovingly' in his life." She had also thought, with distaste and revulsion, of the invasion of her house by troops of patients, even if it were in a separate wing. So, to Jonathan's gratification, she had built this suite of offices which faced the blank wall of the distant house. There was also a white picket fence between, with a gate that was usually locked. The grounds were beautifully landscaped, however, with softly rolling lawns and shrubs and flower beds and old trees. But many of the older doctors were astonished, for it was still the custom to have one's offices attached to one's residence. Only the poorer, and younger, doctors were establishing offices in public buildings and even over shops. When they would become more affluent, they would buy houses and have their offices there.

  Jonathan's offices consisted of a small but well-appointed pharmacy, where he concocted his own remedies and improved on those already available, a comfortable waiting room, a consultation room finely paneled and- furnished and with a gas log fire, a small office for his bookkeeper-typist (the spinster and "advanced" daughter of a minister), a file room, and two examination rooms, also heated by gas. Marjorie had had electricity installed, though she disliked it for her own house, considering it too stark. There was a telephone directly connected with the h
ouse, and a public one.

  The walls of Jonathan's consultation room were mostly lined with his medical books and with cabinets for medical journals. It was a handsome room, warm and large and quiet. Here he had spent the eight happiest years of his life. Here he sat today, at his great walnut desk, another gift of his mother, going through the drawers and slowly emptying them. All at once, he was tremendously depressed. He got up and strolled through the suite, restlessly. The minister's daughter was no longer there; he had discharged her several months ago, for he now rarely practiced and accepted few patients. Everything was silent except for the dripping of the rain and gusts of late spring winds, and the small hiss of the gas fires. The suite already felt deserted and abandoned. Jon paused in the waiting room, which his mother had furnished pleasantly with Mission and rattan furniture and a bright overhead electric chandelier of tasteful proportions. His patients would not gather here any longer; they would be young Bob's patients very shortly. He went into the room where his bookkeeper had sat; the typewriter was covered, the little desk and chair empty. The lady would return, she had promised, under "the new doctor." He slowly entered the pharmacy and saw his jars and bottles and boxes of pills and powders and liquid, all bright and shining under the light, and also waiting. Then he went into the examination rooms, so well-equipped with modern tables and white chairs and cabinets full of his precious instruments for minor operations and inspections.

  At last he stood in the short hall with the doors and the silence about him. He stood there a long time, thinking. He still had to go over the files of his patients, with special notations for young Bob. The files of people's lives, with all their ailments and their histories, their fears and their impending condemnations to death! He went into the file room and stared at the rank of green steel files, discreetly locked so that no one had access to them except himself. A man's life was his own.

  Was it? In less than a few months his, Jonathan's, was no longer his own. It belonged to no one at all, even himself. He was already an exile. Very shortly, this beloved place would be rented by another and he would be forgotten. He would be—where? He shrugged. He did not know. His mother was not aware that he had been considering never practicing again but going abroad to live in quiet and solitude, perhaps in Cornwall, perhaps in Chartres, perhaps in serried and lonely Spain, perhaps in Berlin. There was no place for him in the world he had known; he was not only exiled, but he was self-exiled. He had never had an enormous affection for his fellowman, for he felt that overt affection was an insult to others and a condescension. He did not believe in "warmth," which was something you extended only to a beloved dog or cat, or, in private, to a wife or a husband or a dear child. But he had compassion for all that lived, especially infants, young mothers and the fearful old. Pain and suffering had been abhorrent to him. He found nothing "noble" in agony, nothing to be offered up for the sake of others, nothing in the way of "reparation," as the clergy said. (On this, too, he had parted company with the Church.) To him pain was an insult to humanity; it should not be countenanced; it was a waste of time, which could be employed in the stern business of being a man. True, pain was inseparable from living, but it should be pain and striving of the spirit, as man struggled toward manhood. Physical pain reduced man to an animal, and Jonathan had fought such pain with grim intensity and disgust, and had usually conquered it. Older doctors had sometimes sneered at him as the "pill-roller." They had considered a certain amount of pain as "salubrious," or a promoter of "humility," though they were careful not to permit a great deal in their own lives or in the lives of members of the family. They distrusted even the new Aspirin, and were annoyed that it could be bought without prescription. But Jon gave it out in full boxes, for a pittance. "What's heroic about a toothache or the pains of rheumatism?" he would say. "Those hypocrites! They don't mind swallowing morphine at the slightest ache they have themselves!" He knew that many physicians were already addicted, and he was outraged that they were permitted in operating rooms. He was working with the American Medical Association on the dangers of drug addiction, though many of his colleagues still angrily insisted that morphine was "harmless."