“You never can tell,” repeated Jonathan. “What makes you think we won’t have ‘ambitions,’ say in twenty-five or fifty years? If we don’t, we’ll be unique in the history of the world, and of mankind.”
“We are unique,” said Marjorie in a tranquil tone. “We had no ambitions, not even in the last war. We’ll be giving Cuba her freedom soon.”
Jonathan thoughtfully sipped at his fresh coffee. “Unique,” he repeated. He shook his head. “No, we’re not. We began as ancient Rome began. Well probably end as she did, too, in a bloody despotism, with dictators, and perhaps Caesars, finally.”
“How morbid you are this morning,” said Marjorie. “But, then, you were always a solemn little boy, too.” She smiled at him fondly, a smile he did not see.
“There’s one thing you can always be certain of,” said Jonathan, “that it’s very unwise not to underestimate the goodwill of mankind. We haven’t honestly taken one step forward to true manhood in five thousand years. We’re the same old murdering bas—” He stopped. But Marjorie only smiled.
“Not America,” she said. “The Spanish-American War wasn’t really a war in the full sense. We’ve been at peace since 1865, over thirty-five years. We’ll never have the wars Europeans have, thank God.”
“Don’t be too sure. We’ll begin to feel our oats. It’s human nature.”
“But, we have two large oceans protecting and isolating us, and again, thank God.”
“Oceans can shrink. The Greeks and the Egyptians found that out, and so did Egypt and Palestine, when Rome began to stretch her muscles and look around for new worlds to conquer and exploit.”
Marjorie gave him the jam pot. “Jon, dear, you really are morbid. You haven’t any faith in your own country. Did I tell you that Jenny is having tea with me today?”
“Dear, sweet Jenny,” said Jonathan, and made an ugly grimace.
“Now, Jon. I do hope Harald will bring her. It’s such a nasty day, and it’s a long row across the river.”
“Darling Harald,” said Jonathan. “How’s the scandal running in the town lately?”
Marjorie was distressed. “Isn’t it horrible? Such evil-minded people.”
“You can’t blame them, when it comes to our Harald.”
“Jon, I do wish you’d stop, your everlasting sneering at your brother.”
He looked at her sharply. “I forgot. He was always your pet, wasn’t he?”
No, thought Marjorie, with deep sadness. She said, “Harald doesn’t have a very strong character. I thought, when he married, he’d choose a firm-minded girl, who would direct him and guide him. But he married Myrtle.”
“For her money.”
“Poor Myrtle. We mustn’t vilify the dead.”
“Oh, certainly not. I wasn’t vilifying Mrytle, Mother. I was vilifying Harald, if that’s possible. A ‘firm-minded girl’? Like Jenny, for instance.”
His mother looked at him strangely. It seemed incredible to her that Jonathan was so blind, he who was always astute and perceptive. “Jenny,” she said, in her gentlest voice, “is a wonderful girl. I love her dearly. You are so harsh about her. You are quite wrong, and so is the town.”
“I know. An untouched lily. Never mind.” He stood up.
“Where are you going this unpleasant morning, dear?”
“To try to badger that old—I mean, old Louis Hedler into accepting Bob Morgan on the staff of St. Hilda’s.” He paused. “I couldn’t induce you to part with twenty-five thousand dollars, could I, to match my own twenty-five thousand dollars, for a new nurses’ wing?”
Marjorie raised her black brows. “That’s a large bribe,” she remarked. “For a young man you hardly know.”
“But you’ll remember that you were considering that—a year ago.” He looked at her, and they both remembered indeed that Marjorie and he were going to give that to the expensive private hospital—until the trial.
“Yes,” said Marjorie.
“You’ll let me mention that, then? They really need that wing, you know.”
Marjorie sighed. She played with the handle of the cup. Then she said, “Nothing, I suppose, will change your mind, Jonathan?”
“Nothing.”
She said, “I want you to know this, dear. If you want me, Til go with you everywhere you go.”
“And leave sweet Jenny and darling Harald? Mother!”
The pallor about her mouth increased. It was utterly beyond her training to reach out her hand impulsively, take her son’s, draw him to her and kiss him, and let him know how dear he was to her. So she remained silent. After a moment or two she said, “Very well. I will keep the promise I made. But is it necessary?”
“Yes. That’s why I brought the matter up. Old Hedler’s too close to Martin Eaton. Even if Eaton is still recovering from his stroke and just learning to walk again.”
He’ll never forget, thought Marjorie, and never forgive. He was always a relentless little boy. She said, “How cruel of them. Jonathan, does Dr. Morgan deserve the effort you are making in his behalf?”
“I think so. I hope so. By the way, his mother’s arriving today. He never told me much about her, but I gather she’s a —well—let me put it this way: a vulgar, pretentious, arch sort of woman. Yet his father was
a
gentleman. I hope to be able to rescue Bob from her, eventually, and get him married off to the firm-minded character you were referring to. A lady, however. On the other hand, maybe he needs
a
soft girl to bring out his latent virility.”
He bent stiffly and kissed his mother’s forehead, and she gave him a cool kiss on the cheek. She watched him go. There was a pain in her which did not rise from her heart. She thought of Mavis Eaton, Jonathan’s dead young wife, and her pale mouth parted in fresh suffering. She had never like Mavis, the vital, zesty, tantalizing, Laughing Girl. Pretty blond Mavis, so gleeful of voice, so alive and vivid, so stupid and cuddling and cruel! How Jonathan had adored her. How strange it was for Jonathan, who was so perceptive, not to have known all about Mavis at once, even when she was a child. But men were peculiar when it came to women. The dullest woman could deceive the most intelligent man. Marjorie had subtly expressed her disapproval to Jonathan
a
thousand times before the wedding but had aroused only his anger and indignation. She had attended the wedding, calm, serene, smiling, while she had cried inwardly and with foreboding. She had accepted Mavis into her house, after the honeymoon, and had behaved toward the girl with kindness and affection. It had been no use at all.
Marjorie shuddered. She pressed her hands hard over her eyes, leaned her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands. She dared not say a word. One word would bring disaster, and it must never be spoken.
“Well, now,” said Dr. Hedler, “the diploma-mill hack,” as Jonathan called him. “That’s a magnificent offer, my boy, really magnificent! So good of you and charming Marjorie. But she was always generous. I knew her in Philadelphia, you know, and her family.”
“Yes, I know. Nearly everyone knew my mother ‘in Philadelphia,’ to hear them tell it,” said Jonathan. He could not help it; he said, “I’m sorry about your sister-in-law, by the way.”
The soft, fat, elderly face across from him changed, and the bulging brown eyes pointed in a hard fashion at Jonathan. But Dr. Hedler sighed and said, “Yes. Too bad. But there was no way of finding out that she had cancer before the operation. We could only sew her up and lie to her.”
Jonathan had been regretting his remark, a brutal one, but now he knew that he was, in fact, applying a little blackmail, and that he was dangerous to Dr. Hedler. Good. For Dr. Hedler knew that Jonathan had made the diagnosis of possible carcinoma over a year ago and been ignored, and among the more urbanely ridiculing had been Dr. Hedler himself. Dr. Hedler might be Chief-of-Staff at St. Hilda’s, but everyone was aware of his “medical” background, especially the younger physicians, and everyone, even his enemies, knew that Dr. Ferrier was a famous surgeon and diagnostician, and that his diagnosis had been verified in the operating room. Yes, I’m a dangerous type, thought Jonathan, with pleasure.
They were sitting in the dignified but luxurious Chief-of-Staff’s office, all paneled wood, heavy crimson velvet draperies, burning fire in a black marble fireplace, rich Brussels rug, and handsome pictures and excellent dark mahogany furniture. It had begun to rain, a warm murmurous rain mysteriously full of promise. It ran down the tall windows in silvery rivulets.
“I have a feeling about cancer,” said Jonathan, very grave. “About six people out of ten thousand die of it, in one form or another. That’s comparatively few, compared with the other killers, such as diarrhea and tuberculosis. And pneumonia and influenza and diphtheria. These are our present murderers, while cancer is rare in comparison. It won’t always be that way. Twenty years ago one person in ten thousand died of it. In forty or fifty years? As we conquer one disease another takes its place. Balance of nature. But cancer is the foulest disease of all.”
“It will always be rare,” said Dr. Hedler, with the indulgence of the experienced toward the more youthful and inexperienced. “And it only affects the very old in most cases, though Georgia isn’t old, I admit. However, she isn’t very young either. Do you know that she’s only the tenth case I have seen in all my long years of practice?”
I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment, thought Jon without charity. But he only nodded his head.
“I’ve heard of only one case of leukemia,” said Dr. Hedler.
“I’ve had about eight,” said Jonathan. “I think that form of cancer is increasing, too.”
Dr. Hedler smiled and shook his head. “I doubt it. Well. Let us look again at young Dr. Morgan’s credentials. Um.” He put on his pince-nez. “Interned at Johns Hopkins. That’s very nice.” He sighed with a sound of soft suet moving. “I did take it up before with Martin Eaton, you know.”
“And he turned down his thumb.”
Dr. Hedler was pained. “Jon, he’s a very reasonable man, and he did found St. Hilda’s, and it’s his pride and joy. Gave a quarter of a million dollars—a huge sum! I showed him Dr. Morgan’s credentials. He, er, said the staff is filled.”
“Closed staff. Curse of hospitals,” said Jonathan with contempt. “We need all the physicians and surgeons we can get for Hambledon and the surrounding territory. Keep the newcomers out and off the staff, and we won’t be able to meet the demand. And the hospitals we have will deteriorate.”
“We have to protect the income of the staff, Jon.”
“Protect the staff’s income. Let the public be damned. Who said that? Was it old J. P. Morgan, or one of the Vanderbilts? It doesn’t matter. The public deserves better treatment from its doctors and its hospitals. What’re we here for, anyway?”
“We can’t let the new young doctors enthusiastically fill up all our beds! They love that Gives them a reputation. What of the people who really need beds?”
“We can always intrude our own judgment if a boy gets too ambitious,” said Jonathan. “Now, old Martin. He’s acting out of spite, and you know it Louis. I know the other members of the staff will go along with you, if you say so and give Bob Morgan your approval. Old Martin’s been domineering you for years; we all know that. Show your independence.”
Dr. Hedler turned dark red, but he controlled his fury. “One of these days, my boy, your tongue will hang you.” He stopped abruptly. But Jonathan only grinned.
“It almost did once,” he said. “We’re getting off the subject. Hambledon’s growing; so is the whole territory around here. Industry moving in. The medical population has to grow, too, to keep up. Keep denying young doctors a place on the hospital staffs and they’ll have to go somewhere else, and Hambledon’s the loser. We’re lucky to have a fellow like Bob Morgan applying. Let’s get some fresh air in this town.”
He waited. Dr. Hedler did not speak. “Come on, Louis,” said Jonathan, with impatience. “Old Martin will never be able to practice again, and you know it. If you go over his head, and you have the right to, as Chief-of-Staff, there’ll be some indignant growling, and then it will be forgotten. Besides, I’m leaving, as you know damned well. Who are you privately considering to replace me?”
Before he could stop himself, Dr. Hedler said, “Martin has someone in mind. He will finish his internship in December.”
“What hospital?”
But Dr. Hedler merely shook his head. He looked again at the credentials. Jon said, “Fifty thousand dollars. Where are you going to get that much so soon? Off the street?”
Dr. Hedler silently stared down at the credentials. “Look here,” said Jonathan, “take Bob Morgan. Or I’ll stay here on the staff and where will Martin’s precious protégé be then? I’ll tell you something: If I stay, old Martin’s going to blow out another cerebral artery. Not that that wouldn’t be a good idea in the long run, or maybe even the short run. You’ll be doing him a real favor, Louis, if you take my choice.”
“When you put it that way— Yes, I can see what you mean. Give me another opportunity to talk with him, Jon. And, as you said, fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, and we need the nurses’ wing practically at once.” Dr. Hedler became genial. “Let me thank you, Jon. And Marjorie.”
So, it’s all right, thought Jon. Blackmail, bribe, a chance for revenge. Who can resist all these? Not old Louis!
“No, no, no flowers,” said Robert Morgan to the hotel manager who had just brought in a mighty vase of highly scented field roses, as red as blood and furious with life. “My mother is sensitive to all flowers. But thank you, anyway.” He looked longingly at the roses. They reminded him of Jenny Heger. He added, “I’d like them in my own room, though.” He would never see roses again without thinking of Jenny. The very thought of her was poignant to him.