If Sally did get the professor only by the skin of her teeth, she had no need to keep that precarious hold upon him. Providence or the elements, or whatever you wish to call it, took that matter in hand and attended to it with the thoroughness usual in cases in which it undertakes to attend to anything. For Sally awoke the next morning to find her world bound fast in ice. Every twig bore its load except such as had refused to bear it. The birches, in scattered clumps, bowed down to the ground, and the hard crust of the snow was littered with broken branches.
Sally stood at her window, looking out. It was beautiful, there was no denying it; but, as she looked at the birches, every one of them bent to the ground, with the freshly fallen snow covering it, and its top held fast under the crust, her lip curled a little. She didn't think much of a tree which couldn't hold itself up. It seemed to her too much like saving yourself at the price of your self-respect. Better be a self-respecting, upstanding tree, even if you did lose an arm or two; better to go down altogether, if need be, but fighting. Yes, in spite of their beauty, she despised the birches. And, with some such thoughts as these, she turned from the window and dressed quickly.
Nothing came that morning. A horse could hardly get through that crust with safety to his legs. In consequence, the professor had no cream. Sally fully expected an outburst of rage, which, with the professor, took the form of acidly sarcastic remarks. His remarks, while preserving outward forms of politeness, usually resulted in reducing Mrs. Ladue to tears as soon as she had gained the seclusion of her own room. It was not that Professor Ladue held his wife accountable for such things as heavy snowstorms orsleet-storms—upon full consideration. Such things are usually denominated "acts of God," and, in contracts, the contractors are expressly relieved from responsibility for failure of performance in consequence. The professor himself, upon full consideration, would have held such exemption quite proper. But his wife was not a contractor and was entitled to no such exemptions. A professor was entitled to cream for his breakfast.
Sally, coming down with Charlie, found her father eating his breakfast in solitude and in apparent content, and without cream; certainly without cream. Mrs. Ladue had not appeared. Perhaps she was tired of being reduced to tears on such occasions and had more confidence in Sally than she had in herself. Certainly the professor was less apt to indulge his taste for acid sarcasm with Sally. There is little satisfaction to be got out of it when the only effect upon the hearer is a barely perceptible rise in color and a tightening of the lips. At all events, he did not do what was expected of him.
"Good-morning, Sally," he said pleasantly.
Sally was much surprised. She was so much surprised that the blood surged into her cheeks in a flood. That was a greater effect than could have been produced by acid sarcasm in any amount. The professor might have noted that. Perhaps he did.
"Good-morning, father," Sally replied, smiling. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then, yielding to her impulse, she put her arm around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "Good-morning." And she went quickly to her seat, her cheeks blazing.
The professor was so astonished at this act of Sally's,—an act as difficult to foresee and to provide against as an act of God,—he was so thoroughly astonished, I say, that he spilled some of the coffee which had no cream in it. But let us hope he would not have wanted to provide against that act of God.
"Well, Sally," he said, laughing lightly, "it's surprisingto think what the weather can do when it tries. Only yesterday afternoon, bare ground and scarcely a hint of what was coming. Now, here we are, tied up."
"Tied up?" Sally asked.
"Tied up," he repeated. "There's little doubt about it. No milkman." He waved his hand. "And there'll be no grocer and no anybody else. You'll see. No butcher—meat man—we don't have butchers, now. Just think of that, Sally. No meat until spring. How will you like that? We should have been keeping chickens and pigs and we ought to have cows and a calf or two. Then I would take my axe in my hand and my knife and I would sally out to the barn. You would hear sounds of murder and we should have fresh meat. Fresh meat!" The professor looked ferocious.
"And no trains," he added meditatively. "I haven't heard a train this morning and I don't expect to."
"Well," said Sally, "you don't have to take them. What do you care?"
"Ah, true," he replied in the same meditative tone. "Very just, Sally. I don't have to take them, and what do I care? What do I? Answer, nothing."
The professor waved his hand again and drank his coffee. An irrepressible chuckle came from Sally. She said nothing, but waited for her father to resume. He always did resume when he was in this mood, which was not often.
He put down his empty cup. "And what do we do? We finish our breakfast, which may be a matter of some time, judging from quantity alone." He pointed to Sally's plate and to Charlie's. Charlie had been eating industriously ever since he sat down. "We finish our breakfast and we loaf awhile, and then we bundle up and try to shovel out; you, Sally, and I and Charlie."
Here he pointed a finger at Charlie, who emitted a roar of delight.
"An' can I shovel with my little snow-shovel? Can I?"
The professor poured for himself another cup of coffee."You are to have the felicity of shoveling with your little snow-shovel, Charlie. See that you do good work with it. And Sally shall take themiddle-sizedsnow-shovel, and I will take theGREAT BIGsnow-shovel."
Another roar from Charlie, who began to eat faster.
"This coffee, Sally," continued the professor, "would be better if the storm had been less severe. But it does very well. It is most excellent coffee. It is probably better for my health than it would be with cream. For, do you know, Sally, I am well convinced that cream with coffee forms quite another substance, which is deleterious to health and destructive of the ability to sleep, although affecting in no way the desire to do so. And that, Sally, is most unpleasant."
Professor Ladue was speaking in his lecture-room voice and very seriously. Sally was smiling. As he finished, the smile grew into a chuckle and she choked. Charlie, having taken an extraordinarily large mouthful, and being diverted from the ensuing process by the choking of Sally, also choked.
"Sally," said the professor calmly, "your little brother needs your attention. He needs it rather badly, it seems to me." For Charlie had his mouth open and was getting red in the face.
Sally got up hastily and pounded Charlie on the back. That measure being ineffective, she shook him violently. He gasped twice.
"Want to race," he exploded.
The professor looked surprised. "An eating race, Charlie?" he asked. "Why, my dear boy, I shouldn't stand a ghost of a chance with you. We might make it a handicap, but, even then—"
"Shoveling race," Charlie explained. "You have the great big snow-shovel an' Sally have the middle-sized shovel an' I have the little snow-shovel, an' we race to see who can get the most done."
"Brilliant idea, Charlie, positively glittering," his fatherreturned. "But it would hardly be fair to start us all from scratch, I am afraid. Better make it a handicap, eh?"
"Yes," Charlie replied, not knowing in the least what a handicap was.
Neither did Sally. "What is a handicap, father?" she asked.
Her father explained.
"Oh," she said, approving, "then it makes the race fair, doesn't it? Every one has as much chance of winning as everybody else. I think that is nice."
"It is an attempt in that direction, Sally. But there are many things about it, about—er—racing—of any kind, that it is just as well you shouldn't know. So I will not try to explain. If every one concerned acts fairly, Sally, and with good judgment, it is nice, as you say."
Sally was not going to be put off. "Why doesn't everybody act fairly?"
The professor waved his hand and shrugged his shoulders; but before he could make any other reply, the door opened softly. He welcomed the opening of the door. It put a stop to Sally's questioning, which was apt to become embarrassing, in certain cases.
A glance at Sally's face would have told Professor Ladue who had opened the door, but it is to be supposed that he knew. Sally jumped up and ran; and the professor rose—rose with some alacrity—and turned.
"Good morning, Sarah," he said pleasantly. "We are all glad to see you. I hope you are feeling better."
Mrs. Ladue smiled happily. One would have thought that Professor Ladue would have tried that manner oftener. It produced much effect with little effort; but I spoke hastily. I do not know how much effort it was.
"Thank you, Charlie—Charlie, dear," she answered, hesitating a little; "I do feel very much better. I heard all the happy noise down here and I had to come down."
"Don't apologize, my dear," he protested; "don't apologize, or we shall have to believe that you didn't mean to come because you didn't want to."
Mrs. Ladue took her seat, but made no reply. There was a faint color in her cheeks and she looked almost shyly at her husband. Sally was gazing at her mother, but not in wonder. There was no fathoming Sally. She reached out and pressed her mother's hand.
"You look so very pretty, mother," she whispered.
The color in Mrs. Ladue's cheeks became deeper. "Hush, dear," she whispered in return. "It must be because I am happy."
"I wish we could always be happy," Sally whispered again; "all of us."
There was no way of knowing whether her father had heard these whispers. He might have heard, but he gave no sign, looking into his empty cup and playing with the spoon.
"Sally," he said suddenly, "what do you suppose my little lizard would have done if he had waked up some morning and found his swamp covered with this?" The professor waved his hand toward the window.
Sally was much interested. "Would he have flown away?"
"Wrong," cried the professor, getting up and walking to the window. "Guess again."
Sally gave the question some thought. "I don't know," she said at last.
"Wrong again. Next! Charlie!"
Charlie had his mouth full. He looked up in surprise. "What?" he spluttered.
"What would my little lizard have done this morning?"
Charlie was no Fletcherite. He swallowed his mouthful very nearly whole. Then he gasped a little which is not to be wondered at.
"Little lizard would take his little snow-shovel and shovel a great big place—" he began. Then an idea seemed to strike him and he stopped with his mouth open. "No," he cried; "little lizard would be dead."
"Very possibly, Charlie. That's the nearest answer, so far." The professor turned and regarded his son curiously."I should really like to know how you arrived at that conclusion."
"Lizard died a long time ago," Charlie answered. "Couldn't wake up this morning because you've got the bones upstairs."
The professor laughed. "A very just observation," he remarked. "You have a logical mind, Charles."
Charles slid down from his chair. "I'm through my breakfast," he announced. "Want to shovel."
"You forget our programme, Charlie," said his father. "We are to loaf now. It is always best to eat slowly, masticate your food well, refrain from drinking when you are thirsty, and stand for half an hour after eating. There are other things which I forget. But we will loaf now."
The professor lit a cigarette, after due preliminaries. Mrs. Ladue had finished, apparently. She had come down rather to enjoy the rare occasion than to eat. Perhaps it was a knowledge of that fact which had kept the professor going and a desire—an inexplicable desire—on his part to keep her in her state of happiness. It was seldom possible to account for his actions. At all events, he was accomplishing that end. It was a great pity that his desires did not always run in that direction. It would have been so easy; so very easy for him, and it would have made his wife so very happy. But the time when that would have done any great good may have passed already.
The professor followed out his programme religiously, talking when he felt like it, always a pleasant and cheerful flow of irresponsible talk, and loafing conscientiously for half an hour. Mrs. Ladue sat still, saying little, afraid to move lest the movement break the spell. Charlie had slipped out, unnoticed.
Presently there was a great noise on the cellar stairs, sounding like distant thunder. The noise stopped for a moment.
"What's going on?" asked the professor casually. "Socialists in the cellar? Not that I care," he added, with awave of his cigarette. "Mere curiosity. I should be glad to meet any socialists; but not in the cellar."
Mrs. Ladue laughed gently. It was a long time since the professor had heard her laugh. That thought occurred to him.
"You will, I think. They are opening the cellar door now. There they come."
For the noise had resumed, and was approaching along the hall. The door of the dining-room swung open suddenly and Charlie entered, earnest and intent and covered with dust and cobwebs. Behind him dragged three snow-shovels, also covered with dust and cobwebs.
Sally sprang for him. "Oh, Charlie—"
He brushed her aside. "I brung your shovel, father," he said, "an' Sally's. I couldn't lift 'em all at once, an' so I dragged 'em."
The professor bowed. "So I gathered," he replied. "I thank you, Charles."
"But, Charlie," Sally cried, "you're all over dust and so are the shovels. They ought to have been dusted."
Charlie had dropped the shovels on the floor, thinking his mission ended. Now he leaned over and thoughtfully wiped the shovels, one after another, with his hand.
"They are," he said, gazing at his grimy hand, "aren't they? But it was dark an' I couldn't see. Besides, the snow'll clean 'em. I want to shovel an' race, father," he added, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't it time yet?"
"Charlie," said his father, throwing away his cigarette, "in the words of Friar Bacon's brass head, time is. Come on."
The next month passed very pleasantly for the Ladues. Sleet-storms cannot last forever and, the morning after Christmas, Sally heard the trains running with some regularity. She was anxious accordingly and she watched her father closely. But he did not seem to care whether trains ever ran or not. His pleasant mood lasted, too: the mood of light banter, in which he appeared to care something for his wife and children; something, if not enough. They were grateful for that little, although they knew very well that it was but a mood that might change utterly in five minutes. It did not change for a surprisingly long time, and Sally almost held her breath at first, while she waited for it to pass. It would have been a relief—yes, distinctly it would have been a relief, at first. But that feeling passed, too.
In short, the professor was good, and Sally was happy. After the tension of that first expectation was over she was very nearly as happy as she should have been always. Children have a right to happiness—to freedom from real worries—as far as we can compass that end; and Sally had been deprived of her birthright. I wonder whether the professor had ever realized that; whether he had ever given it a thought.
Mrs. Ladue was happy, too, because Sally was happy and because her husband was kind to her, temporarily. He was not as kind as he might have been, but then, he might have been so very much worse. He might have beaten her. He had been accustomed to beat her, figuratively, for some years. At first, too, her head seemed really better. At the end of a week of the new order of things, she spoke of it to Sally. She knew better than to mention the subject of headaches to the professor.
Sally was overjoyed. She buried her head in a pillow that happened to be handy, and wept. A strange thing to do! "Oh, mother, dear!" she cried. "Oh, mother, dear, if it only will stay so!"
Mrs. Ladue gathered the child into her arms. "There darling!" she said softly. "There, my dear little daughter! We'll hope it will."
But when, at the end of a month, Sally looked back and compared, she knew that it hadn't. It had been a happy month, though. Fox and Henrietta had been in every day, and, while Sally played—or was supposed to be playing—with Henrietta, Fox sometimes sat with her mother. Mrs. Ladue became very fond of Fox. He didn't talk much, nor did she. Indeed, Sally thought, in that fit of retrospection, that Fox had seemed to be watching her mother; at least, occasionally. And Fox, saying little, saw much. Sally knew. There was no telling how she knew it, but she did; so she went to him, rather troubled, and asked what he thought about her mother's health.
He considered, looking seriously at her for a long time.
"Well, Sally," he answered at last, "it isn't any better, on the whole. I should think she ought to consult some doctor about it—some good doctor."
"Oh," said Sally in a low voice, "you—I hope you don't think—"
"I don't think, Sally," Fox interrupted. "I know there is some cause beyond my limited knowledge, and some one who really knows should see your mother—if any one really knows. Doctors don't know much, after all."
Sally considered, in her turn, for a long time, her eyes searching Fox's face.
"Then," she concluded, sighing, "I shall have to speak to father about it. Well,—I will."
"That's the best thing to do," he replied. "And, Sally, remember, if he doesn't receive the suggestion favorably, you are to let me know."
"He won't," said Sally, with a faint little smile; "that is,he never did. I let you know now. He may," she added doubtfully. "He has been nice for a long time." Sally flushed at this implied confession, but why should she not make it? Fox knew.
"You try it, Sally, and let me know how you come out."
So Sally tried it. It may have been a mistake, but how should Sally have foreseen? It was as likely that, at the worst, she but hastened her father's action; touched off the charge prematurely. The explosion would have come.
There was no beating about the bush. "Father," Sally began soberly, "don't you think that mother ought to see some good doctor? I do."
If her heart beat a little faster, as she spoke, there was no tremor in her voice.
Professor Ladue looked up. He had been prepared to throw back some light answer and to see Sally smile in response; perhaps to hear her chuckle. But, deuce take it, there was no knowing what that confounded child would say next. It was presuming upon his good nature. It occurred to the professor that he had been good-natured for an unreasonably long time. He was surprised and he was annoyed.
Meanwhile that confounded child was looking at him out of sombre gray eyes, waiting for his reply. As the professor's look met those eyes, they seemed to see right through him, and the sharp answer which trembled on the tip of his tongue was left unsaid. It was astonishing how often that happened. The professor was aware of it!—uncomfortably aware—and the knowledge annoyed him the more. The professor was to be excused. It is most unpleasant to have one's naked soul exposed to the view of one's little daughter. One's soul needs to be a pretty good sort of a soul to stand that, without making its owner squirm. And the professor's soul was—well, it was his; the only one he had. But he did squirm, actually and in the flesh.
He tried to speak lightly, but his look shifted. He could not meet Sally's eyes without speaking the truth. "Whatis the matter with your mother, Sally?" he asked. "Stomach-ache or toothache?"
Sally did not smile. "Her headaches. They are getting worse."
"Pouf!" said the professor, with a wave of his hand. "Everybody has headaches. What's a headache?"
"I don't know," Sally replied, "and she doesn't and I think she ought to."
"The definition," remarked the professor coldly, "is to be found in the dictionary, I have no doubt. You might look it up and tell her."
"And so I think," Sally continued, as if he had not spoken, "that mother ought to see a doctor; a doctor that knows about headaches."
"Oh," said the professor, more coldly than before. "So you would like to have a specialist called in; a specialist in headaches."
"I don't know whether that's what you call them," Sally returned bravely. "If it is, then I would."
Her father had turned toward her, but he did not look at her. "Most interesting!" He got a cigarette from the drawer and proceeded to beat out some of the tobacco. "Doctor—er—what's-his-name, from the village, wouldn't do, then?"
"No, he wouldn't." There was just a suspicion of a quiver in Sally's voice. "He doesn't know enough."
"Indeed! You have not communicated your opinion of his knowledge, or his lack of it, to him, I take it?"
Sally shook her head. She could not have spoken, even if the question had called for a reply.
"Do you know what a specialist charges, Sally?"
She shook her head again.
"For taking a case like your mother's, Sally," he said slowly, "which would be nuts to him, I have no doubt, his charge would be more, in a week, than I could pay in ten years."
"It is very important," Sally urged. "It is very important for mother."
The professor rose. "Much as I regret the necessity, I feel obliged to decline." He made her a bow. "No specialists for this family. If your mother feels the need of a physician, let her call Doctor what's-his-name from the village."
Sally turned to go without a word.
"And, Sally," her father added, "be kind enough to tell your mother that important matters at the college require my attention. She is not to be alarmed if I fail to come in my usual train. I may be kept late."
The phrase sounded familiar. It was the old formula which Sally had hoped would not be used again. She went out quietly, feeling responsible. It was absurd, of course, but she could not help it. She meant to find Fox and tell him; but not quite yet. She couldn't bear it yet.
The matters at the college must have been very important, for they—or something—kept Professor Ladue late, as he had seemed to fear; the important matters—or something—must have kept him too late for the last train that night. To be sure, Sally did not know anything about it, at the time. She had not indulged a hope of anything else, and had gone to bed and to sleep as usual. For Sally was a healthy little animal, and she was asleep in a very few minutes after her head had touched the pillow. Her eyes may have been wet. Mrs. Ladue went to bed, too. Her eyes were not wet, but there was an ache in her head and another just above her heart. She may have gone to sleep at once or she may not. It is conceivable that she lay there, with her two aches, until after the last train had got in.
It was the middle of the next forenoon before Sally got a chance to tell Fox about it; and Fox listened, not too sympathetically. That seemed to him to be the best way to treat it. He would have made light of it, even, for Sally was oppressed by the sense of her own responsibility; but Sally would have none of it.
"Don't, Fox, please," she said.
"Well," he replied, "I won't, then. But don't you worry, Sally. We'll have your mother fixed up, all right, yet."
"How?" she asked.
"I haven't decided. But I'm going to bend the whole power of a great mind to the question. When I've found the best way to do it, I'm going to do it. You'll see."
Sally sighed with relief. She had not got beyond the stage of thinking that Fox could do anything that he tried to do. Perhaps he could.
They were down by the gate, Fox leaning upon it and Sally standing on a bar and swinging it gently. Occasionally she looked down the road.
"Here comes father," she said suddenly, in a low voice.
"Stay where you are, Sally." Fox checked her impulse to run.
The professor was walking fast and he came in at the gate almost immediately. Sally had dismounted. He looked annoyed and would have passed without a word.
"Good-morning," said Fox cheerfully.
The professor turned, giving Fox one of his smiles which was not a smile at all. If the professor had chanced to turn one of those smiles upon a too confiding dog, the dog would have put his tail between his legs and run. Vivisection came after.
"Good-morning," said the professor acidly. "I shall be obliged to delay our session for an hour."
"Very well, sir, whenever it is convenient for you." And Fox smiled cheerfully again.
The professor turned once more. His eyes were bloodshot, he was unshaven, and—well, tousled. In short, the professor looked as if he had been sitting up all night. He had.
"You see," said Sally solemnly. Her father was out of hearing, as may be supposed.
Professor Ladue had had a relapse. There was no doubt about it. It was rather serious, too, as relapses are apt to be; but what could be expected? He had been good for a long time, a very long time for him. It was even an unreasonably long time for him, as had occurred to him, you will remember, in the course of his conversation with Sally, and nobody had any right to expect more. What Mrs. Ladue and her daughter Sally thought they expected was really what they hoped. They did not expect it, although they thought that they did; and the proof is that, when the first relapse happened, they were not surprised. They were deeply discouraged. The future looked pretty black to Sally as she swung there on the gate. It looked blacker yet when the professor did it twice again in one month. That was in March. But the worst was to come. It was lucky that Sally did not know it. It is always lucky that we do not know, at one blow, all that is to happen to us. Our courage might not survive that blow. Instead, it has a chance to grow with what it feeds upon.
So Sally went her daily round as cheerfully as she could. That was not any too cheerfully, and her unexpected chuckles became as rare as roses in December. Even her smiles seemed to be reserved for her mother and to be tender rather than merry. She watched the progress of her mother's disease, whatever it was, with solicitude and anxiety, although she tried desperately hard not to show her mother how anxious she was.
Mrs. Ladue's progress was very slow; imperceptible, from day to day, and she had her ups and downs. It was only when she could look back for a month or more that Sally was able to say to herself, with any certainty, that hermother was worse—that the downs had it. But always, when Sally could look back and compare, she had to confess to herself that that was so. The headaches were no more frequent nor did they seem to be harder to bear; but her mother seemed—it was a struggle for Sally to have to acknowledge it, even to herself—her mother seemed to be growing stupid. Her intelligence seemed to be diminishing. What was Fox thinking of, to let that happen?
When this question presented itself, Sally was again swinging moodily upon the gate, regarding the muddy road that stretched out before her. Charlie was playing somewhere behind her, equipped with rubber boots and a heavy coat. It is to be feared that Sally had forgotten Charlie. It was not her habit to forget Charlie. And it is to be feared that she was forgetting that the last day of March had come and that it was warm and springlike, and that there were a number of birds about. It was not her habit to forget any of those things either, especially the birds. There was a flash of blue under a tree near by and, a few seconds later, a clear song rang out. Charlie stopped his play and looked, but Sally did not see the blue wings nor the ruddy breast nor did she seem to hear the song.
That question had brought her up short. She stopped her rhythmic swinging to and fro.
"I'll ask him," she said. Her faith in Fox was absolute.
She opened the gate quickly, and started to run.
There was a roar from Charlie. "Sally! Where you goin'? Wait for me! I want to go, too. I'm awful hot. Can't I take off my coat? An' these boots are hot. I want to take 'em off."
Sally sighed and waited. "I'm afraid I forgot you, Charlie. Take off your coat, if you're too hot, and leave it by the gate."
Charlie had the overcoat off and he dropped it by the side of the footpath.
"Not there, Charlie," Sally said impatiently. "Inside the gate. We don't leave overcoats by the side of the road."
"You didn't say inside," Charlie returned sulkily. "I left it where you said." He opened the gate and cast the offending garment inside. "And these boots—can I take 'em off?"
"No," said Sally sharply, "of course not. If your feet are hot they'll have to stay hot. You can't go in your stocking feet in March."
"I don't see why not," grumbled Charlie. "I could take my stockings off, too."
Sally made no reply to this protest. She took his hand in hers. "Now, run, Charlie. I'm in a hurry."
So Charlie ran as well as a small boy can run in rubber boots and along a path that is just muddy enough to be exceedingly slippery. When they came to the corner that they had to turn to go to Fox's, he was almost crying and Sally was dragging him. They turned the corner quickly and almost ran into Henrietta.
"Oh!" cried Henrietta, startled. "Why, Sally!"
Charlie laughed. "Why didn't you go faster, Sally? Then we might have run into her—plump."
He laughed again, but got no attention from Sally.
"Where's Fox?" she asked.
"He went into town this morning," Henrietta answered. "He told me to tell you to cheer up. I don't know what it's about, but probably you do. I was just on my way to tell you. Come on. Let's go back to your house."
Sally gave a sigh of relief. Fox had not forgotten, after all. There was nothing to do but to wait; but Sally was rather tired of waiting.
"Well, Henrietta," she said, "then we will. But I want to see Fox as soon as ever I can."
Fox at that moment was sitting in the private office of a physician—a specialist in headaches—and was just finishing his story. He had mentioned no names and it was hardly conceivable that he was talking about himself. Fox did not look like a person who was troubled with any kind of aches.
That seemed to be the opinion of the doctor, at any rate. It would have been your opinion or mine.
"I take it that you are not the patient," he said, smiling.
That doctor was not the type of the grasping specialist; he did not seem to be the kind of man who would charge as much as a patient would be likely to be able to pay—all that the traffic would bear. But who is, when you come to know them? Probably the doctors of that type, in any large city, could be counted on the fingers of one hand. I know of one conspicuous example, and one only, and he is dead now. But he squeezed out large fees while he lived, and became very rich; and he was so busy with his squeezing that he had no time to enjoy his gains—I had almost said his ill-gotten gains. But that is by the way.
This doctor of Fox's—we will call him Doctor Galen, for the sake of a name—this Doctor Galen was a kindly man, who had sat leaning one elbow on the table and looking out at Fox under a shading hand and half smiling. That half smile invited confidence, and, backed by the pleasant eyes, it usually got it. Whether that was the sole reason for its being is beside the question; but probably it was not.
In response to the doctor's remark, Fox smiled, too, and shook his head.
"Am I to see this patient of yours?" asked Doctor Galen casually.
Fox was distinctly embarrassed. "Is it absolutely necessary, Doctor?" he asked, in return. "It is difficult to arrange that—without a complete change of base," he added. "It might be done, I suppose, but I don't see how, at this minute."
"The only reason that it might be necessary," said the doctor, speaking slowly, "is that you may have neglected some symptom that is of importance, while seeming to you to be of no consequence whatever. It is always desirable to see a patient. I have to take into account, for example, the whole life history, which may be of importance—and it may not."
Fox made no answer to this, but he looked troubled and he drummed with his fingers upon his knee.
"Can't we assume the patient to be—merely for the sake of fixing our ideas—" Doctor Galen continued, looking away and searching for his example, "well—er—Professor Ladue? Or, no, he won't do, for I saw him a few days ago, in quite his usual health. Quite as usual."
"You know Professor Ladue, then, Doctor?"
"Oh, yes, I know him," the doctor replied dryly. "Well, as I said, he won't do. Let us suppose that this case were that of—er—Mrs. Ladue." The doctor looked at Fox and smiled his pleasant smile. "She will answer our purpose as well as another."
"Do you know Mrs. Ladue, too?"
"No," said Doctor Galen. "No, I have not that pleasure. But I know her husband. That," he added, "may be of more importance, in the case we have assumed—with the symptoms as you have related them."
Fox smiled very slightly. "Well, suppose that it were Mrs. Ladue, then,—as an instance. Assuming that I have given all the symptoms, what should you say was the matter with her?"
Doctor Galen did not answer for some minutes. "Well," he said at last, "assuming that you have given all the symptoms correctly—but you can't have given them all. I have no means of knowing whether there is any tendency to hardening of the walls of the arteries. How old is she?" he asked suddenly.
Fox was startled. "I'm sure I don't know," he answered. "Say that she is thirty-odd—not over thirty-five."
"That is not likely, then," the doctor resumed, "although it is possible. I should have to see her to be sure of my ground. But, assuming that there are no complications,—nocomplications,—there is probably a very slight lesion in the brain. Or, it may be that the walls of the arteries in this neighborhood"—the doctor tapped his head—"are very thin and there is a gradual seepage of blood throughthem. To tell the truth, Mr. Sanderson, we can't know very exactly what is happening until skulls are made of plate glass. But the remedy is the same, in this case, whatever is happening, exactly."
"What is the treatment?"
"Oh," said Doctor Galen, apparently in surprise, "there is no treatment. In the hypothetical case which we have assumed, I should prescribe rest—absolute rest, physical and mental. We must give those arteries a chance, you know; a chance to build up and grow strong again. There is the clot to be absorbed, too. It is likely to be very slight. It may be completely absorbed in a short time. Given time enough, I should expect a complete recovery."
"How much time?" Fox asked.
"That depends upon how far she has progressed and upon how complete a mental rest she can get. It might be any time, from a few weeks to a few years."
Fox hesitated a little. "Then, I suppose, any—er—anxiety might interfere?"
"Any mental disturbance," Doctor Galen replied decidedly, "would most certainly retard her recovery. It might even prevent it altogether. Why, she ought not to think. I hope she has not got so far that she is unable to think?"
"No, not yet," Fox sighed and rose. "It's not so simple as you might suppose. But I'm grateful to you, Doctor. I'll see what can be done and I may call upon you again." He put his hand to his pocket. "Shall I pay you now?"
Doctor Galen smiled as he checked Fox's motion. "Hadn't you better wait until you get my bill? Yes, wait if you please."
That smile of Doctor Galen's seemed to envelop Fox in an atmosphere of kindliness. "You'll send one, Doctor?" he asked doubtfully.
"How do you suppose, sir," said the doctor, smiling more than ever,—he seemed really amused, that doctor,—"how do you suppose, sir, that I should pay my grocer, otherwise? You have put yourself into the clutches of a specialist, Mr.Sanderson. We are terrible fellows. You are lucky to escape with your life."
"Well," Fox replied, laughing, "I thank you again, Doctor, at any rate; and for letting me escape with my life."
The doctor let him out by a door that did not open into the outer office.
"Let me know how you come on with your schemes," the doctor said. "I am really interested. And, if you find it possible to give me a half-hour with your patient, I hope you will do so. It will be much better. Good-bye, Mr. Sanderson."
"I will," said Fox. "Good-bye, Doctor."
The doctor shut the door and touched a button on his desk. He was still smiling. A nurse appeared noiselessly.
"A nice boy, that, Miss Mather, and a deserving case," he commented. "I should be glad to be able to believe that all my patients were as deserving. But I shouldn't make much," he added.
Miss Mather smiled, but made no other reply. The doctor was looking over a little pile of cards. He took up the card from the top of the pile.
"Mrs. Van Hoofe, Miss Mather."
The nurse disappeared as noiselessly as she had come; and the doctor proceeded to smooth out his smile and to assume a properly sympathetic expression. Mrs. Van Hoofe would, perhaps, help him with his grocer's bills.