“It was the result of a man’s damnable folly,” said K. grimly. “Somebody always pays.”
And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid.
The immediate result of his death was that K., who had gained some of his faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was beset by his old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself again powers of life and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been no carelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that he had taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk and begged for it.
The old doubts came back.
And now came a question that demanded immediate answer. Wilson would be out of commission for several months, probably. He was gaining, but slowly. And he wanted K. to take over his work.
“Why not?” he demanded, half irritably. “The secret is out. Everybody knows who you are. You’re not thinking about going back to that ridiculous gas office, are you?”
“I had some thought of going to Cuba.”
“I’m damned if I understand you. You’ve done a marvelous thing; I lie here and listen to the staff singing your praises until I’m sick of your name! And now, because a boy who wouldn’t have lived anyhow—”
“That’s not it,” K. put in hastily. “I know all that. I guess I could do it and get away with it as well as the average. All that deters me—I’ve never told you, have I, why I gave up before?”
Wilson was propped up in his bed. K. was walking restlessly about the room, as was his habit when troubled.
“I’ve heard the gossip; that’s all.”
“When you recognized me that night on the balcony, I told you I’d lost my faith in myself, and you said the whole affair had been gone over at the State Society. As a matter of fact, the Society knew of only two cases. There had been three.”
“Even at that—”
“You know what I always felt about the profession, Max. We went into that more than once in Berlin. Either one’s best or nothing. I had done pretty well. When I left Lorch and built my own hospital, I hadn’t a doubt of myself. And because I was getting results I got a lot of advertising. Men began coming to the clinics. I found I was making enough out of the patients who could pay to add a few free wards. I want to tell you now, Wilson, that the opening of those free wards was the greatest self-indulgence I ever permitted myself. I’d seen so much careless attention given the poor—well, never mind that. It was almost three years ago that things began to go wrong. I lost a big case.”
“I know. All this doesn’t influence me, Edwardes.”
“Wait a moment. We had a system in the operating-room as perfect as I could devise it. I never finished an operation without having my first assistant verify the clip and sponge count. But that first case died because a sponge had been left in the operating field. You know how those things go; you can’t always see them, and one goes by the count, after reasonable caution. Then I lost another case in the same way—a free case.
“As well as I could tell, the precautions had not been relaxed. I was doing from four to six cases a day. After the second one I almost went crazy. I made up my mind, if there was ever another, I’d give up and go away.”
“There was another?”
“Not for several months. When the last case died, a free case again, I performed my own autopsy. I allowed only my first assistant in the room. He was almost as frenzied as I was. It was the same thing again. When I told him I was going away, he offered to take the blame himself, to say he had closed the incision. He tried to make me think he was responsible. I knew—better.”
“It’s incredible.”
“Exactly; but it’s true. The last patient was a laborer. He left a family. I’ve sent them money from time to time. I used to sit and think about the children he left, and what would become of them. The ironic part of it was that, for all that had happened, I was busier all the time. Men were sending me cases from all over the country. It was either stay and keep on working, with that chance, or—quit. I quit.” “But if you had stayed, and taken extra precautions—”
“We’d taken every precaution we knew.”
Neither of the men spoke for a time. K. stood, his tall figure outlined against the window. Far off, in the children’s ward, children were laughing; from near by a very young baby wailed a thin cry of protest against life; a bell rang constantly. K.‘s mind was busy with the past—with the day he decided to give up and go away, with the months of wandering and homelessness, with the night he had come upon the Street and had seen Sidney on the doorstep of the little house.
“That’s the worst, is it?” Max Wilson demanded at last.
“That’s enough.”
“It’s extremely significant. You had an enemy somewhere—on your staff, probably. This profession of ours is a big one, but you know its jealousies. Let a man get his shoulders above the crowd, and the pack is after him.” He laughed a little. “Mixed figure, but you know what I mean.”
K. shook his head. He had had that gift of the big man everywhere, in every profession, of securing the loyalty of his followers. He would have trusted every one of them with his life.
“You’re going to do it, of course.”
“Take up your work?”
“Yes.”
He stirred restlessly. To stay on, to be near Sidney, perhaps to stand by as Wilson’s best man when he was married—it turned him cold. But he did not give a decided negative. The sick man was flushed and growing fretful; it would not do to irritate him.
“Give me another day on it,” he said at last. And so the matter stood.
Max’s injury had been productive of good, in one way. It had brought the two brothers closer together. In the mornings Max was restless until Dr. Ed arrived. When he came, he brought books in the shabby bag—his beloved Burns, although he needed no book for that, the “Pickwick Papers,” Renan’s “Lives of the Disciples.” Very often Max world doze off; at the cessation of Dr. Ed’s sonorous voice the sick man would stir fretfully and demand more. But because he listened to everything without discrimination, the older man came to the conclusion that it was the companionship that counted. It pleased him vastly. It reminded him of Max’s boyhood, when he had read to Max at night. For once in the last dozen years, he needed him.
“Go on, Ed. What in blazes makes you stop every five minutes?” Max protested, one day.
Dr. Ed, who had only stopped to bite off the end of a stogie to hold in his cheek, picked up his book in a hurry, and eyed the invalid over it.
“Stop bullying. I’ll read when I’m ready. Have you any idea what I’m reading?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I haven’t. For ten minutes I’ve been reading across both pages!”
Max laughed, and suddenly put out his hand. Demonstrations of affection were so rare with him that for a moment Dr. Ed was puzzled. Then, rather sheepishly, he took it.
“When I get out,” Max said, “we’ll have to go out to the White Springs again and have supper.”
That was all; but Ed understood.
Morning and evening, Sidney went to Max’s room. In the morning she only smiled at him from the doorway. In the evening she went to him after prayers. She was allowed an hour with him then.
The shooting had been a closed book between them. At first, when he began to recover, he tried to talk to her about it. But she refused to listen. She was very gentle with him, but very firm.
“I know how it happened, Max,” she said—“about Joe’s mistake and all that. The rest can wait until you are much better.”
If there had been any change in her manner to him, he would not have submitted so easily, probably. But she was as tender as ever, unfailingly patient, prompt to come to him and slow to leave. After a time he began to dread reopening the subject. She seemed so effectually to have closed it. Carlotta was gone. And, after all, what good could he do his cause by pleading it? The fact was there, and Sidney knew it.