Читать книгу Concerning Sally - William John Hopkins - Страница 14

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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 her mother 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—no complications—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 through them. 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.