CHAPTER XXI.
AFTER THREE MONTHS
The curtain falls and rises again after an interval of three months.
There have been some changes in our boarding-house. Prof. Poppendorf still occupies his accustomed place, and so does Miss Blagden. The young reporter still sits at my left, and entertains me with interesting gossip and information about public affairs and public men with whom he has come in contact.
But the young woman from Macy's has left us. She has returned to her country home and is now the wife of her rustic admirer, Stephen Higgins. I think she has done wisely. Life in the great stores is a species of slavery, and she could save nothing from her salary. When Prof. Poppendorf heard of her marriage, he looked depressed, but I noticed that his appetite was not affected. A true Teuton seldom allows anything to interfere with that.
Mrs. Gray has received two or three notes from the Countess di Penelli. They treated of business matters solely. Whether she has discovered that her husband's title is spurious I cannot tell. I hear, however, from a drummer who is with us at intervals, that she is keeping a boarding-house on Spring Garden street, and that her title has been the magnet that has drawn to her house many persons who are glad in this way to obtain a titled acquaintance.
As for myself I am on the high road to a comfortable income. I was fortunate enough to give my rich patient so much relief that I have received the large check he promised me, and have been recommended by him to several of his friends. I have thought seriously of removing to a more fashionable neighborhood, but have refrained—will it be believed?—from my reluctance to leave the Disagreeable Woman. I am beginning to understand her better. Under a brusque exterior she certainly possesses a kind heart, and consideration for others. Upon everything in the shape of humbug or pretension she is severe, but she can appreciate worth and true nobility. In more than one instance I have applied to her in behalf of a poor patient, and never in vain.
Yet I am as much in the dark as ever as to her circumstances and residence. Upon these subjects I have ceased, not perhaps to feel, but to show any curiosity. The time was coming, however, when I should learn more of her.
One day a young girl came to my office. Her mother kept a modest lodging house on West Eleventh street, and she had been my patient.
"Any one sick at home, Sarah?" I asked.
"No, doctor, but we have a lodger who is very low with a fever. I think he is very poor. I am afraid he cannot pay a doctor, but mother thought you would be willing to call."
"To be sure," I said, cheerfully, "I will be at your house in an hour."
An hour found me ringing at the door of Mrs. Graham's plain lodging house.
"I thought you would come, Dr. Fenwick," said the good woman, who personally answered the bell. "You come in good time, for poor Mr. Douglas is very sick."
"I will follow you to his room."
He occupied a small room on the third floor. It was furnished in plain fashion. The patient, a man who was apparently nearing fifty, was tossing restlessly on his bed. Poorly situated as he was, I could see that in health he must have been a man of distinguished bearing. Poverty and he seemed ill-mated.
"Mr. Douglas," said the landlady, "this is Dr. Fenwick. I took the liberty of calling him, as you are so ill."
The sick man turned upon me a glance from a pair of full, black eyes.
"Dr. Fenwick," he said, sadly, "I thank you for coming, but I am almost a pauper, and I fear I cannot pay you for your services."
"That matters little," I replied. "You need me, that is enough. Let me feel your pulse."
I found that he was in a high fever. His symptoms were serious. He looked like a man with a constitution originally strong, but it had been severely tried.
"Well?" he asked.
"You are seriously ill. I am not prepared just now with my diagnosis, but I can tell better in a day or two."
"Shall I be long ill?" he asked.
"It will take time to recover."
"Shall I recover?" he asked, pointedly.
"We will hope for the best."
"I understand. Don't think I am alarmed. Life has few charms for me. My chief trouble is that I shall be a burden to you and Mrs. Graham."
"Don't think of me, I have a fair practise, but I have time for you."
"Thank you, doctor. You are very kind."
"Let me put down your name," I said, taking down my tablets.
"My name is Philip Douglas."
I noted the name, and shortly left him.
I felt that in his critical condition he ought to have a nurse, but where was the money to come from to pay one?
"He is no common man," I reflected. "He has been rich. His personal surroundings do not fit him."
Somehow I had already come to feel an interest in my patient. There was something in his appearance that set me wondering what his past could have been.
"It must have been his misfortune, not his fault," I decided, for he bore no marks of dissipation.
Under favorable circumstances I felt that I could pull him through, but without careful attendance and generous living there was great doubt. What should I do? I decided to speak of his case to the Disagreeable Woman.
CHAPTER XXII.
I APPEAL TO THE DISAGREEABLE WOMAN
"Miss Blagden," I said when the opportunity came, "I want to interest you in a patient of mine—a gentleman to whom I was called this morning."
"Speak freely, doctor. Is there anything I can do for him?"
"Much, for he requires much. He is lying in a poor lodging-house grievously ill with a fever. He has little or no money, yet he must once have been in affluent circumstances. Without a trained nurse, and the comforts that only money can buy, I fear he will not live."
"It is a sad case. I am willing to cooperate with you. What is your patient's name?"
"Philip Douglas."
"Philip Douglas!" she exclaimed, in evident excitement. "Tell me quickly, what is his appearance?"
"He is a large man, of striking appearance, with full, dark eyes, who must in earlier days have been strikingly handsome."
"And he is poor, and ill?" she said, breathless.
"Very poor and very ill."
Her breath came quick. She seemed deeply agitated.
"And where is he living?"
"In No. – West Eleventh Street."
"Take me there at once."
I looked at her in amazement.
"Dr. Fenwick," she said, "you wonder at my excitement. I will explain it. This man, Philip Douglas, and I were once engaged to be married. The engagement was broken through my fault and my folly. I have regretted it many times. I have much to answer for. I fear that I wrecked his life, and it may be too late to atone. But I will try. Lead me to him."
I bowed gravely, and we set out.
Arrived at the lodging-house I thought it prudent to go up alone. I feared that excitement might be bad for my patient.
He was awake and resting more comfortably.
"How do you feel?" I asked.
"Better, doctor. Thanks to you."
"Have you no relatives whom you would wish to see—or friends?"
"I have no relatives in New York," he said.
"Or friends?"
He paused and looked thoughtful.
"I don't know," he answered, slowly. "There is one—I have not seen her for many years—but it is impossible, yet I would give my life to see Jane Blagden."
"Why not send for her?"
"She would not come. We were friends once—very dear friends—I hoped to marry her. Now I am poor and broken in health, I must give up the thought."
"Could you bear to see her? Would it not make you ill?"
"What do you mean, doctor?" he asked, quickly.
"I mean that Miss Blagden is below. She wishes to see you."
"Can it be? Are you a magician? How could you know of her?"
"Never mind that. Shall I bring her up?"
"Yes."
CHAPTER XXIII.
AT LAST
Jane Blagden paused a moment at the entrance to the room, as if to gather strength for the interview. I had never seen her so moved. Then she opened the door and entered with a firm step.
He lay on the bed with his eyes fixed eagerly on the door. As she entered he tried to raise his head.
"Jane!" he exclaimed, eagerly.
She placed her hand for a moment on her heart, as if to still its throbbing. Then she walked quickly to the bed.
"Philip!" she said.
"At last!" he cried, in a low voice.
"Can you forgive me, Philip, dear Philip?"
"If there is anything to forgive."
"There is—much. I am afraid you have suffered."
"I have."
"And so have I. Since we parted I have been lonely—desolate. I let my pride and my obstinacy come between us—but I have been punished."
She had drawn a chair to the bed-side, and sitting down took his hand in hers. It was hot, feverish.
"You are very ill, I fear."
"I shall be better now," he murmured. "It is worth much to have you beside me."
I looked at the face of the Disagreeable Woman. I saw upon it an expression I had never seen before—an expression that made her look ten years younger. I could not have believed in the tenderness, the heart-warmth which it showed.
"Philip," she said, "you must get well for my sake."
"And if I do?" he asked, eagerly.
"It shall be as you wish."
He closed his eyes, and a look of happiness and content lighted up his features. But soon there was a change. It was evident that the excitement had been too much for him.
"Miss Blagden," I said, "I think you must go. Our patient is too weak to stand any more excitement or agitation."
"Can I not stay here as his nurse?" she pleaded.
"It will be better to have a trained nurse—one who will not agitate him."
"As you think best, doctor," she said, meekly, "but I will stay in the house. How soon can you send a nurse?"
"Within an hour."
"Do so, and I will stay here till then. If he wakes I will leave the room."
Within an hour a trained nurse was installed in the sick chamber. Miss Blagden made an arrangement with Mrs. Graham to occupy a room which had fortunately been vacated the day previous. It was small and uncomfortable, but she cared little for this.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE LIGHT OF HOPE
Then commenced the struggle with disease. Philip Douglas was very ill. I had not exaggerated the danger. He was unconscious most of the time, but in spite of that he seemed to have a dim consciousness that there was some good in store for him.
While he was unconscious Miss Blagden felt at liberty to spend a part of her time in the room. She assisted the nurse, and waited patiently for the patient's amendment.
For three days it was a matter of doubt whether he would live or die. I gave up all other patients for him. I had become almost as anxious as Miss Blagden. I watched Philip Douglas narrowly to note any change either for the better or worse. It was a long and wearisome vigil. I was waiting for the crisis.
At length it came. He began to breathe more freely, though still unconscious. I noticed a change for the better in his pulse. Her eyes as well as mine were fixed upon the sick man. Finally her eyes sought my face with eager questioning.
"Is there a change?" she asked.
"Yes, he will live."
"Thank God!" she breathed, fervently, and a look of grateful joy lighted up the face of the Disagreeable Woman.