4
The telephone rang in Dr. McClaren’s office. The doctor was breakfasting, but he didn’t enjoy as usual his porridge with cream and heavy black bread made by his Scotch housekeeper; his mind was elsewhere. He had been up a greater part of the night with young Mrs. Garrison, who went off from one fainting spell into another; she complained of intense pains in her head. He left her sleeping under bromides; she worried him. Dr. McClaren had lived forty years in New York; a gigantic man, with bushy, iron-gray hair and eyebrows, a noble head, keen, kind eyes.
His friends had advised him to “take out his papers”; he did, and paid his taxes honestly, but never voted. He couldn’t understand the political rings; he let them fight it out without help from him. Born in Edinburgh, he studied medicine at its excellent severe university, went to London to practice, starved there five years, then turned his back on an “ungrateful country” that refused an able doctor a living.
Coming over to America, he made friends with some “natives,” and liked them—nice simple fellows, “they open their hearts to you, like a grab bag at a fair; everything in it is yours.”
“Medicine is a paying profession among Americans; they go about with boxes of pills in every pocket.”
“Doctor, my wife’s just been through an operation. She’s nervous, give her something to quiet her, will you?”
The doctor objected to sedatives when not absolutely necessary, but he found the frail American woman had her own chest of quieting drugs. She talked of her operation in professional terms, like a doctor. He wondered if she knew she could have no children. He wouldn’t tell her; it would break her heart, poor thing. He soon found out she did know, and didn’t break her heart about it.
With the help of his new friends, who went to unbelievable trouble and sacrifice of valuable time to show him “the ropes,” he was established in the spacious home in Thirty-fourth Street, which he eventually bought; it was the only permanent thing in his life. His simple Americans became complicated millionaires. The sands of humanity shifted from decade to decade. A great city in the making left him many a time bare of patients, but the winds of immigration blew them in again. The tidal wave of Europe’s overflow became a national industry—a weird wonderful gigantic machine; they put in a crazy combination of human beings, and it vomited—Americans.
The assistant put his head in the door.
“Mr. Garrison seems agitated. He would like you to come at once.”
The doctor threw down his napkin and jumped into his car; the Garrisons were one of the few old families left. He was very fond of young Garrison; he had brought him into the world; nothing like that baby had even been seen before; there was a controversy about the name; Mr. Garrison wanted James, according to tradition when it had ceased to be Jan, but she wouldn’t hear of anything so vulgar; she named the child Floyd, after the hero of Mrs. Holmes’ last novel.
“But,” said the doctor, “suppose he should develop into a strong individuality; that name would be too weak for him.”
“He won’t,” said Prudence. “He’ll be like all the men of the family, a perfect gentleman.”
If Floyd’s father had lived, he would never have consented to the marriage. Julie was a hysterical girl, with a tendency to epilepsy; that was a secret in a family of many secrets; she grew out of it, but there were always over developed emotional symptoms. He was called in one night. She had been taken ill at the opera; the music affected her; she was quite stiff; he brought her to with difficulty. He had a shock when he heard of Floyd’s marriage. He thought there was something going on between Julie and Martin Steele. The young couple seemed to be very happy; she was a passionate mother; such mothers don’t make good wives.
He stood looking down thoughtfully at the sick woman, tossing from one side of the bed to the other. He had assured Floyd it was only a nervous attack. The excavating going on in the neighborhood accounted for the chills alternating with fever. She was delirious for hours, and after, exhausted, lifeless. Floyd wanted to consult another doctor.
“No, no, not necessary yet; it would frighten the patient, but I’ll send for Miss Mary.”
Floyd was bewildered; Julie was in perfect health and high spirits when he left and drove with Maud to her hotel. Scarcely an hour had intervened; he found her unconscious. What did it mean?
Julie was not talkative about herself, although she drew every thought out of him. Was there anything worrying her? Could any woman have it better? He was her constant companion, anticipated her every wish; what more could he do?
He sat brooding, the breakfast before him untouched, his paper unopened. Someone was fumbling at the knocker outside; he went to the door; he had a vague impression of a very small person; a clear voice spoke; it was like a bell ringing in his ears.
“Mr. Garrison’s house?”
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Nothing. I’m going to try to do something for you.” She flew up the stairs.
He was a bit startled, as if a bird had suddenly fluttered past him. He followed her, she had already thrown off her cape, under which was a white linen dress. She took an apron and cap from her bag, quickly put them on without a mirror; they sat at just the proper angles; she was used to dressing in the dark. Julie was lying across the bed; the covering was in knots, the pillows all cavities. The girl bent over her, murmuring low sounds like a dove cooing. Floyd tried to distinguish the words.
“You’re very uncomfortable. Yes, I know how your head aches. Oh, what pretty hair! It’s heavy, isn’t it? Let me roll it up for you. How warm you are. No wonder.” She flew to the windows, let them down top and bottom, putting a screen at the bed to shield the patient from the draught.
She spoke in a low but extraordinarily clear voice, every syllable sharply cut.
“A bowl of cracked ice, please; now the linen. Don’t bother; I’ll find everything.”
She was already in the next room exploring. When Floyd came up with ice, she was changing the sheets; it was the most remarkable feat he had ever seen, she rolled one off and slipped on the other without disturbing the patient. Her hands were tiny, but flexible, strong; it was magic. How the room changed; everything in order, the bed fresh and clean, the patient soothed. She held Julie’s hand, whispering all kinds of encouraging things.
“Now I’m going to give you something to eat; you’re hungry, of course you are; that husband of yours starves you.”
She threw a smiling look at Floyd, who smiled back at her. She knew he spoilt his wife; he could see that.
“No, I won’t go away; I’ll stay right here.” She took a bottle of prepared food out of her bag, which she warmed on the electric heater, cooing all the time, going about noiselessly on the smallest feet Floyd had ever seen. A trained nurse from his experience was a loud, fat, middle-aged woman who upset the house, ate all day long, and had to be waited on by the family. This little fairy was so helpful, so executive; she knew it all, she hadn’t asked a question.
When Dr. McClaren came that day, he gave a quick glance around and said:
“Now everything will be all right.”
Floyd followed him down stairs. After a short silence the doctor spoke.
“Has your wife any worries?”
He tried to be quite truthful.
“Oh, no; at least, none that I know of.” Then he spoke about that “little girl” upstairs, remarking how wonderfully quick she was.
The doctor smiled.
“Isn’t she very young?”
“She’s had twenty-three years of hard experience. She was born in a hospital. Her mother died at her birth. The lot of us took care of her—the scrub woman, the nurses, the doctors, the patients; she grew up inhaling iodoform; it’s healthier than eau de cologne. Her dolls were little orphan babies. She learnt to sterilize instruments at an age when most children are being ‘perambulated’ in the park. She toddled after me, sat on the cots, watched the patients get well, watched them die. I could have made a good doctor out of her, but she thought nursing was more helpful. Her school graduates human beings.”