Part 13

It was quite dark when he reached Bainbridge. He knew well the aspect of the open common, because he had passed through it a dozen years before, and the place is unforgettable. There was a large green, he remembered, and the houses hedged the green, as they did at East Witton. He smiled at the memory and at the comparison. Yorkshire held such variety of scene, from east to west, that he could pick from among old associations a pleasant thought of every part of it. And here at Bainbridge he knew there was an old inn, quiet and spacious, where he might find Evelyn. She was not one to seek the smaller inns such as he would himself have chosen: she would endure the discomforts of loquacious companionship rather than those of primitive bathing arrangements. Had it not, then, been instinct which had led him here? Had it perhaps been a subconscious guessing at her inclinations? Calderon could not discuss that now. He was here; it was too late to go farther; he must endure whatever disappointment might be in store for him.

A bedroom was available; he was supplied with hot water, and he groomed himself as well as his small store of belongings allowed. Whimsically he foresaw a number of women in semi-evening dress, one or two men in suitably dark clothes, himself the only palpable “tourist.” There would be a solitary meal, as dinner time was past; and he would then seek among the company the owner of the silver ring. Calderon found himself laughing rather excitedly, even trembling slightly. Well, he would see what happened. He ventured down the stairs, nervously grinning at the thought that Evelyn might appear from any one of the doors along that silent passage.

When he reached the foot of the stairs he went instinctively to the door, to watch the two or three faint, sudden lights that started across the green out of a general blackness. It was a very dark night; clouds had come swiftly from the southwest, and the sky was entirely hidden. There was a wind, and he thought that as soon as it dropped the rain might begin to patter.

And then, while he was thus prophesying the weather, Calderon was held to the spot by a new sensation. Within, from some room which he had not entered, came an unknown voice, singing. The voice was sweet, but he did not listen; only the air that was sung made him follow the voice, words forming in his mind, as though he were himself singing:

“The little silver ring that once you gave to me Keeps in its narrow band every promise of ours. . . . ”

Surely he was dreaming! He could not move. The clouds hurried; the darkness enwrapped him. He could not smile at a coincidence, because he could not believe that the song was really being sung. It was too much for him to take in. If Evelyn were there, what could she be feeling, thinking? Calderon was a very honest man, and was considered generally a very cool, unsentimental one; but he was easily moved by the one love of his life. Evelyn was the only woman for him; they were parted; he had found a ring which held just such associations, “memories of the past,” as the song pictured. The ring was more than a ring. It was not merely an ornament; it was the material sign of their love. Calderon was deeply stirred.

Even as he stood there, not daring to move, he felt that he was not alone. Another figure, a woman’s, stood in the doorway. He could see her light dress, the whiteness of her neck; and he found himself breathless, suffocated by the sudden dénouement to his dream.

“Evelyn!” he whispered, moving at last.

There was a quick recoil. For a moment it seemed to Calderon that everything was lost, and that he was alone. Then the woman in the doorway stood quite still, breathing quickly, half hidden from him by the doorpost, her face wholly invisible in the murk of the night.

“I didn’t see anybody,” she said unsteadily. “Who are you?” It seemed an unfamiliar voice, rather strangled and more than a little scared.

“Ah! You’re not Evelyn!” Calderon cried. Still he could not see her: only the whiteness glimmered before him. “I’m— My name’s Calderon. I beg your pardon. I thought it was my wife.”

“Calderon!” said the voice; and it seemed to him that it was suddenly filled with a new warmth, as of gayety. Then: “How funny!” said the unknown. He seemed to see her head quickly lowered and averted. Was she smiling? Who could have told, in that foglike darkness? It was as much as he could do to see that she was still before him. But funny? What did that mean?

“Funny?” he exclaimed eagerly. “Is—” He pulled himself up. Here was a complication! If he asked any question, might he not make a new difficulty? He could not ask whether Evelyn was here. He could guess how quickly a story would run through a mischievous party of tourists, unrestrained by any real understanding of the situation, and bent upon canvassing among themselves, merely to beguile gaps in a mealtime conversation, the history of an unhappy marriage. He could not expose Evelyn to such a company. So he went no further with his speech.

“Perhaps you’ve heard—” said the voice. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Alice Bradshaw.” She was quite recovered from her shock, and was ready, it appeared to Calderon, to hold him flirtatiously in the doorway. “I’ve known Evelyn for some time—two years.”

“I’ve got an idea—” hesitated Calderon, racking his brains and lying. It was getting worse and worse! How could he go on without showing how little he knew about Evelyn’s recent movements? He frowned, and smiled nervously on the darkness. He was rather glad of the darkness. “I—it’s possible—”

“But not probable!” said the laughing voice. “Don’t pretend to remember me, if you don’t!”

“Well, I don’t!” admitted Calderon. “And that’s quite true.”

“Honest man!” said the voice. Something made him move forward quickly. The figure disappeared. Calderon, putting his hand instinctively forward to stop her, allowed the little ring to jerk from it.

“Oh!” he cried. “Here, I say!”

He was down upon his knees, fumbling on the ground. A match flickered on his fingers. He looked quickly up, hoping to see the unknown’s face; but the match was blown out instantly by the strong wind that was pressing and fluttering about him as he knelt.

“What have you dropped?” asked the voice. The mysterious one had reappeared in the doorway.

“A ring!” Calderon said sharply.

“A ring!” There was sympathy in the voice. “What a pity! Let me look.”

He struck another match, and groped about. It was unavailing. The match went out, and beyond a sudden glimpse of the trodden earth he had seen nothing.

“It’s really your fault,” Calderon said to the unknown, “for starting away.”

“Was it on your finger?”

“No. It isn’t mine. It’s a silver ring.”

“A silver—” There was a moment’s startled pause. “Did you hear the song just now?”

“Yes—Ah!” With the third match he had detected the ring. “Good!”

“Is it your ring?” asked the voice. “I mean . . . Evelyn . . . wears one, doesn’t she?”

“Does she?” Calderon asked drily. “She did.”

“Oh, she—”

“I found it on the moor. This is hers. I brought it—”

Calderon checked himself again. He was rubbing the ring with his handkerchief, in case it had been dirtied.

“How did you know we were here?” said the voice, in a tone of piquant curiosity.

“Then—!” cried Calderon, feeling his face get very hot. He could have shouted at this confirmation of his most rosy hopes. It was with a terrible effort that be restrained himself. “Oh,” he said vaguely, “one does know.” He heard a real laugh this time, but smothered, as though the unknown were holding a handkerchief to her mouth.

“Evidently,” she said. “But how does one know?”

“How do you know that Evelyn didn’t tell me?” he parried. He felt it was a master stroke. “You don’t seem to have exhausted the possibilities.”

“No, of course. She might have,” admitted the mysterious voice. There was the tiniest silence. “But I don’t think she did. Of course, I don’t know.”

“No, of course,” Calderon politely agreed. “Is she quite well?”

“Oh!” cried the voice, shaking with amusement. “Don’t you know that? Hasn’t she told you that? It’s too bad to keep it from you!”

“What!” Calderon moved nearer. “She’s not ill!”

“No. I meant that she was well.”

“She tells me very little about herself—very little,” he explained ingeniously. “You’ll have noticed that she doesn’t think of herself at all.”

A dryness came into the tone of his companion.

“You still idealize her, then?” Calderon heard.

“Yes. You see . . . it’s an odd thing,” he went on, “and one doesn’t talk about it. But you see I’m in love with her.”

There was another pause. A significant pause. “I think you’re very forgiving,” at last said a muffled voice. “I—”

“What I should like to know,” Calderon answered, as if weighing his words, “is whether she’s also very forgiving.”

“Oh,” said the voice, now very low. “You must ask her that.”

“I do,” Calderon ventured. “Are you?”

“Oh, Maurice, you’re crushing me!” cried the unknown suddenly. “There . . . Alice has finished singing. She’ll be coming. . . . Give me my ring. . . . Oh, my dear; of course I do!”

The ring was restored, to rest in its old position until memory’s course should be run.

_Frank Swinnerton_.

THE SURGEON

“You fellows outside the medical profession have absolutely no conception of the terrors confronting a prominent physician and of the traps and snares and pitfalls laid for him at every turn.”

The great surgeon lolled back in his chair, and, raising a glass of champagne in those delicately formed, yet steel-strong fingers that had resolved the intricacies of life and death for many a sufferer, he gazed thoughtfully at the whirling torrent of tiny bubbles and then touched it lightly to his lips. It was one of those rare times when the wheel of Fate had brought together a group of men united by the strongest bond that friendship can tie, the bond of the college life and love of auld lang syne. It was heart to heart here, even as it had been with us a quarter century before, ere we had parted to go our several ways in the broad fields of life.

Of us all, Harrington had become the one pre-eminently famous, and his remark came in reply to a bit of the congratulatory flattery that only the intimacy of the college chum dare venture with impunity.

“What do you mean, Harrington?” asked Dalbey, the banker. “Perplexities of diagnosis, the nervous strain of responsibility, and the like?”

“I think I can say without conceit,” replied the surgeon, “that diagnosis has become with me almost an intuition. In that field I have absolute confidence in myself. As for nerves, I haven’t any. I can cut within the fiftieth of an inch of certain death as coolly as you pare your nail. No; I mean deliberate wickedness, malice, blackmail. We are never free from this danger. Let me give you an instance, if it won’t bore you.”

There was a chorus of calls, “Go on, go on,” and Jenkins cried, “Never heard it!” for which he was promptly squelched.

It was just two years ago (Harrington began), and my five gray hairs date from that night. I was sitting in my office just after my evening office hour had ended, and I was pretty well tired out. The bell rang furiously, and I heard the attendant saying that my hour was over and that I could see no one. There was some very vigorous insistence, and I caught the words “urgent,” “imperative,” and a few more equally significant, so I called to the man that I would see the belated visitor. He entered quickly. He was evidently a man of wealth and breeding, and as evidently laboring under great excitement.

“Is this Dr. Harrington?” he asked as he seated himself close by my desk.

“It is,” I answered.

“Dr. James Y. Harrington?”

“Yes.”

In the next second I found myself looking into the muzzle of a revolver. They say that when a man is in imminent danger, the mental strain is relieved automatically by trivialities of thought; and, do you know, the first thing that flamed through my head was, “How many turns does the rifling take in a barrel of that length?”

“I have come to kill you,” said my visitor in a tone as cold as camphor ice, yet with a dignified courtesy I could not but admire. Was I face to face with a crank? This question I decided in the negative, and the situation became so much the more—piquant, shall I say? Well, I can say it now, at least. Perspective adds piquancy, very often.

“Sir,” I said as quietly-as most men could when a very earnest gentleman has the drop on them, “sir, there is certainly some mistake here.”

It may have been an inane remark; but at least he didn’t pull the trigger, and that gained time.

“There is none, I am equally certain,” he replied.

“You have me at a decided disadvantage,” I continued, “and as any movement of attack or alarm on my part would precipitate fatalities, may I request that before you kill me, you at least tell me why you propose to do so. I make this request because, as a physician, I can see that you are perfectly sane and not the crank I at first thought you.”

I was regaining my nerve, you see; if there is one thing in this world to give a man nerve and coolness, it’s to put it right up to him to avoid the next one. At any rate, the fairness of my request must have appealed to my visitor, for he said, “Certainly I will tell you, doctor. That is only just. I kill you because you performed a critical operation on my wife, and she is dying.”

“This is all a fearful error,” I exclaimed eagerly. “I do not even know you, have never seen you nor your wife, much less operated upon her. Surgeons of my standing in the profession—I say this advisedly, sir—usually know whom they treat.”

“Usually they do, I grant you,” he assented, but he emphasized the wrong word quite unpleasantly. “This has been an exception,” he added.

“Why do you believe it was I who operated?” I urged.

“My wife said so; that is sufficient for me.”

“She must surely have made the charge in delirium,” I said.

“She is not delirious, nor has she been.”

“Where was the operation performed?”

“She refuses to tell me.”

I thought very bard for a minute. What kind of a predicament was this? I then said to him, “This is a serious and vital matter, sir, for both of us. Any mistake could not fail to have momentous consequences. Suppose you take me to confront your wife. It is probably a case of mistaken identity, and when she sees me, she will most certainly be able readily to rectify this awful blunder. And so sure am I of the result that I pledge you my word to accompany you without violence or outcry.”

After a moment’s reflection he said, “I accept your proposition.”

His carriage was waiting at the door. Evidently he had been desperate when he came, and fully prepared to face the consequences of his desperation. We drove together to his home.

In my complete certainty of my position I feasted my eyes on the luxurious furnishings, the costly rugs—I’m a lover of rugs, you know, and a bit of a connoisseur—and the exquisite bric-a-brac and paintings. Moreover, I now knew with whom I was dealing, though that fact I concealed.

We went up to the sickroom. A beautiful woman, desperately ill and pale as death itself, lay motionless upon the pillows. As we softly entered the room, she turned her eyes toward us, too weak to move her head.

The eyes were dull and listless, but when their glance fell on me, they literally flashed fire and a hard, determined look came into them.

“Dear,” said her husband, bending tenderly down to her, “who did you say performed that operation?”

“Dr. Harrington,” she whispered.

“I have brought him here. Is that the person who operated?”

“Yes.”

My heart just at that moment went as cold as a snowball. I saw myself ruined, broken on the wheel of Fate. The death phase of the situation didn’t matter. Worst of all, I now saw the motive. She was shielding some bungler, near, or more probably dear, to her—I was the victim selected by mere horrible chance.

I crossed softly to the bed. “Madam,” I said to her as gently as my tumult of feeling would permit, “I implore you to tell the truth. Did I perform this operation?”

With absolute self-possession she whispered, “Doctor, you did.”

I was helpless; it was a fine illustration of the terrible power of the lie as a weapon against right and honor.

“I assure you, before God,” I declared, turning to the husband, “that I was not the operating surgeon in this case. You know, possibly, my reputation for professional skill. Will you then permit me to take your wife’s temperature and to make a very brief examination with a view to determining the probable effect of her condition upon her rational faculties?”

To my delight, he consented. With careful formality I prepared a thermometer, taking and noting the temperature both at mouth and armpit. The woman exhibited none of the repulsion she ought to have shown, by all principles of psychology, to being examined by the author of her misfortune.

I then seated myself by the bed and felt the pulse. Taking my watch and detaching it from the chain, I placed it on the white cover of the bed beside her, where she could not fail to hear the ticking. I lifted her hands and applied my finger tips lightly to the arterial beat at the wrist. I looked her steadily in the eyes, and apparently gave the most minute attention to the really faint beating of her pulse.

“Madam,” I said after a long wait, “it is my solemn and painful duty to inform you that you have but fifteen minutes to live. My whole professional life is at stake here. Ruin, disgrace, and even death stare me in the face as a result of what you may say. But I do not urge this upon you. I urge you merely for God’s sake to tell the truth.”

“Doctor, you know you did it,” she whispered wearily.

I had expected that. My bit of work in experimental psychology was just beginning. I kept perfectly silent, my fingers still resting upon the patient’s wrist. The tomb itself is not more still nor more solemn than was that room. I let full five minutes pass without word or movement.

Do you know how long five minutes can be? Did you ever try a silent wait of five little minutes, even though life and death were not in the balance? Try to guess at five minutes; and if you are not skilled in counting seconds, you will call time in two. Five minutes can be an eternity. They were so then.

“Madam,” I said again, “you have but ten minutes to live. I implore you to right the great wrong you have done.”

Why that man did not throw me out of the room I will never know. He seemed fascinated by the fearful experiment.

Again she calmly murmured, “Doctor, it was you.”

I acknowledge that then the room turned black; but I was myself in an instant. I resumed my solemn death watch. This time I deliberately allowed eight minutes to add themselves to the eternal past. Then I knew I was playing my last card.

“Madam,” I said as solemnly and impressively as I could speak the words, “in two minutes you will be before your God. Are you willing that your soul should face its Maker with the black stain upon it of the dreadful lie you have told? For your own immortal soul’s sake, I implore you to tell the truth.”

A feeble gesture called her husband to her side. I rose and retired across the room. He bent over her, shaken by great sobs. She drew him down to her, kissed him and whispered, “It was not he.”

I almost fell. The revulsion of feeling was too great. Mastering myself by a supreme effort, I stood to hear the colloquy to the end.

“Who was it?” he asked.

She told him.

“You swear to this?”

“With my dying breath.”

He turned to me with a face of ashen paleness. “Doctor,” he gasped, “pardon.”

I snapped shut the case of my watch. “Madam,” I said, “you will recover,” and left the room and house unmolested.

No one spoke for a moment. Then Carvill ejaculated under his breath, “My God!”

_B. W. Mitchell_.

THE ’DOPTERS

“Lemmy—oo-hoo—Lemmy—”

Lemmy stopped short in his game of jack-stones, and looked fearfully over his shoulder. All about him were the rest of the children, unconcerned, playing none the quieter for the reposeful afternoon shadow of the gray cloister-like walls. At the edge of the yard where the grass was worn off most he saw the “biggest boys,” now suspending their game of ball to call to him. In the general cry he recognized the leading, raucous voice of Gus Chapman. Lemmy did not answer. He turned his back and tried to fling his jackstones indifferently. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gus approaching.

“The ’Dopters, Lemmy—the ’Dopters are coming!” Gus warned him.

In an instant Lemmy was on his feet. Panic-stricken, he fled, leaving his jackstones upon the ground. He put his hands over his ears to shut out the hooting, derisive cries of the boys who did not understand his fear of the ’Dopters—that horde of individuals who lurked about the Home, a constant menace to his happiness. They looked harmless enough, to be sure, in their varied disguises. Some came as jolly, oldish ladies with much candy and sometimes fat bunches of raisins in their pockets. Others looked for all the world like hearty farmers who might raise apples, both red and yellow—a very deceptive sort, these farmers, who laughed a great deal and poked the boys’ muscles and pinched the girls’ cheeks. Most to be feared were the ’Dopters in black who hung round more than any of the rest. They brought toys hardly worn at all, but they never seemed to want to let them go at the last minute. They made a show of crying over Gracie Peeler and Nannie Bagget, who had curls and knew how to do a curtsey. The ’Dopters in black always made off with some one.

Despite the endless variety, it was not hard to tell a ’Dopter if you saw him in time. There was something about them. Most of the children recognized them instinctively. Gus was particularly expert at picking out the ’Dopters from the casual visitors at the Home. Watching for them never interfered with his play in the least. He always saw first. Lemmy had learned to trust Gus’s signals of danger, and although he was overwhelmed by the accompanying teasing, he felt very grateful. Gus was his savior—his methods were not to be criticized. Times innumerable Gus had saved him from being adopted.

Who knew what it meant—being adopted? Lemmy could not understand why most of the children thought that it was something nice. None of them seemed to realize that there was any reason to be afraid. They were always talking about Tommie Graham, who had been borne off by the ’Dopters. His friends at the Home had not seen him since his disappearance, but stories had started somehow about Tommie’s having a dog with a schooner back and a train of cars which whizzed around when he pressed a button. It was also said that there was another button which Tommie could press and some one would come to take him for a ride in a sailboat. But all this was mere hearsay. There was no telling what had really befallen Tommie, all because he was foolish enough to sing in the hearing of the ’Dopters his song about three frogs that sat on a lily pad.