II
This was the most absurd and unreasonable request that had ever been made of him—which was saying a good deal, for his generosity was well known, and full advantage was taken of it. And yet, somehow, the incident touched and troubled him. He couldn’t forget the passionate earnestness of the old Irishwoman.
“Nonsense! Nonsense! Nonsense!” he said half aloud, and sat down at the table.
Before him stood a plate of that stew. He tasted it.
“It’s—cold,” he observed, in an apologetic tone.
In his heart he was afraid of Mrs. MacAdams. She was such a resigned, subdued woman, and always so completely in the right, that he felt vaguely guilty every time he saw her.
“I thought you would be in a hurry, doctor,” she said faintly. “I had no idea you would stay out in the hall so long, talking to that person.”
“No, no, of course you didn’t,” Dr. Joe hastily assured her. “Quite all right, Mrs. MacAdams. Many of ’em in the waiting room?”
“I believe I opened the door six times,” she answered, with angelic patience.
He felt guiltier than ever. The feeling that he was a tyrant to Mrs. MacAdams mingled with a wretched conviction that he had been unduly abrupt with the poor old woman in the hall, until he saw himself as an utterly heartless bully. He couldn’t bear it.
“I just want to see,” he murmured, with an ingratiating smile, and, getting up, opened the dining room door.
Katie was gone. The high-backed chair was occupied by the little red-haired boy, who sat there with his head thrown back and his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Now see here!” said Dr. Joe indignantly. “Did she—did your nurse go off and leave you here?”
“Yes, she did,” answered Frankie.
“Well, you can’t stay here,” the doctor told him.
Without a word Frankie rose, took up his cap, and walked off down the passage.
“Here, wait a minute!” called Dr. Joe. “You can’t go off like that!”
Frankie stopped and turned.
“You told me I couldn’t stay,” he said.
The child’s manner was not in any way defiant or impertinent, but he certainly was not abashed. He stood, cap in hand, looking straight into the doctor’s face; and though he was by no means a handsome child, being slight, pale, and undersized for his years, there was something in that straightforward glance which Dr. Joe found very attractive.
“See here, my boy!” he said. “What[Pg 262] put the idea of being a doctor into your head, anyhow?”
“It just came,” said Frankie. “When I was in the hospital. When I had pneumonia last winter. In New York. The internes used to talk to me. And I liked it.”
“Didn’t like the pneumonia, did you?” asked Dr. Joe.
“I didn’t care,” said Frankie. “I liked to be there. I liked—” He paused. “I liked the smell of the hospital,” he continued earnestly.
“You’re a funny kid!” said Dr. Joe, laughing.
Frankie did not seem to care for this. He turned away again and made for the door, and this time Dr. Joe stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t care!” said the boy.
Now the words themselves had very little significance; it was the spirit behind them that conquered Dr. Joe. The boy was obviously frightened by that heavy hand on his shoulder. He was only eight, and he lived in a child’s world. He had no understanding of these all-powerful grown people, who laughed or flew into tempers for no reason at all. He thought Dr. Joe was angry, and he was frightened—his eyes showed that; but his mouth set in a firm, sulky line, and once more he declared that he didn’t care.
“By Jove!” cried Dr. Joe. “I will take you!”