The two young men followed the energetic Elvira out into the hall. Then she stood there with a look of cold defiance. "Will this not do, for what little you are able to tell me out of your medical ignorance?"
Jonathan reached for the nearest doorknob and Elvira said sharply, "That is my room, if you please—Doctor."
"Don't be alarmed," said Jonathan. "I've been in more ladies' bedrooms, invited and uninvited, than I can remember, both as a physician and as—shall we say visitor?"
"It is not necessary to be lewd," said Miss Burrows very clearly, "though I am not one of your namby-pamby misses, but a modern woman of the twentieth century, frank and candid—"
"And I bet you know all the words, too," said Jonathan, with an air of great admiration. "Well, if we're not to invade your vestal chamber, where shall we go?"
Elvira looked as if she had a very pertinent suggestion she would like to offer, then merely pressed her lips together and marched down the hall and pushed open a distant door. With an imperative gesture she motioned them inside. There was a streak of high color on each of her prominent cheekbones. "And," said Jonathan, "I bet you know all the euphemisms of the words. If not, I'd be glad to instruct you, my dear young lady, at your convenience. Alone."
"I am sure you would!" said Elvira, and her eyes became wintry lightning. "Pray, will you enter this room, Doctor, which was once my dear, dead mother's little sitting room?"
Robert had thought Jonathan's remarks hardly pardonable, but he had not been able to help smiling under his golden-red mustache. She was really a very spotless young lady, with pretensions of modernism, and it was fortunate that she had not really understood Jonathan's naughty insinuations. There was no one quite so pure as a lady who affected to be emancipated and free of inhibitions. The real trollop was usually very dainty in her speech and pretended to be insulted at the slightest jocular remark, and was very retiring and lip-licking in the presence of strange men. Elvira, on the contrary, was a veritable grenadier.
They went into a very stuffy and musty little room, overpoweringly redolent of camphor and lavender flowers and hot heavy draperies and mothballs and heated rugs and cumbersome furniture. The mirrors over the dresser and the dressing table had been sheeted, and the few pictures had been turned to the brown-painted wall. A small window looked out on branches of trees and nothing else. It was a most unpleasant room and Jonathan decided to stand, whereas Elvira sat down as straight as a ruler on a small armless rocker covered with horsehair.
"I will ask you a few serious questions, Miss Elvira," said Jonathan, and now he looked forbidding. (This expression of his had always been highly successful with neurotic or hysterical or intractable ladies before, and had the effect of quieting and subduing them. But Elvira merely gave him a cool smile of scorn and waited.)
"I wish you to be frank—as all young ladies of this age are," he added.
She inclined her head.
"First of all: When did your mother die?"
Elvira, for the first time, seemed a little taken aback. "My mother? What has my dear, dead mother got to do with Papa's illness?"
"Miss Elvira, I am asking the questions. You don't want your father to die, do you? He is certainly on the steady way to death. If you care about him, please don't waste my time."
The girl had become ghastly in color, and her eyes were flickering with fear. But she had fine control of herself. "I don't believe he is dying, not in the least. However, I will answer your questions as briefly as I can. Mama died eleven months ago, in New York, in our small town house. Quite unexpected. She had seemed in good health, though at her age—forty-two, anything could have been possible. Elderly people— They are subject to many afflictions. I suppose you agree, Doctor? Indeed. She had had a good dinner—I had cooked it myself, our cook having her twice-monthly evening off—and as I am partial to health foods, I can assure you it was a very wholesome dinner."
"I am sure it was," said Jonathan. "What was it, by the way?"
"Whole browned rice with crushed nuts and chopped spinach, broiled in a little butter. Formed into chops."
Jonathan visibly winced. Elvira's color was returning, and she had the elevated appearance of a fervent fanatic. "We began with a light broth, bean-stock lightly flavored with nutmeg and thyme."
"I see, I see," said Jonathan with haste. "That's quite enough, please. I see that the meal could not have disturbed your mother had she been in superb health. She was, I assume?"
"I am not sure that I care for your tone of voice, Doctor," said Elvira, who was a very keen young lady. "Nor for your insinuations that my mother could only survive health foods in the event that her health was superb. I will let it pass, considering that these remarks came from a prejudiced mind. My mother said she had enjoyed the food very much, and I was pleased, as I had been trying for a long time to get her to eat more sensibly. She preferred rich food and corpses—"
"Corpses!" exclaimed Jonathan with a slightly overdone air of revulsion.
"You know very well what I mean, Doctor. The innocent corpses of innocent beasts, slaughtered to satisfy our lusts."
Jonathan opened his mouth to say a very indelicate thing, then thought better of it. "Quite right," he said instead. "Go on, please."
"I am sure," said Elvira, her voice becoming more inflected and clear every instant, "that you really aren't interested in poor Mama's diet. At any rate, she woke at midnight, calling me, saying she had acute indigestion. Very severe. She claimed she felt as if she had been poisoned."
"No doubt she had," said Jonathan but almost inaudibly.
"What did you say, Doctor? No matter, it really isn't very important, though I suppose it was impolite. You are a very rude, uncouth man, if you will pardon my candor.
"I gave Mama my usual remedies, ginger in hot water, hot soda water, hot tea with a little cream of tartar. They are usually quite enough. Mama had had these attacks before and always came out of them splendidly under my care. But she continued to complain. She asked me for a doctor. To soothe her mind—though, of course, I have no trust in doctors—I telephoned one. It took me quite a time, through Central, to find one near our house, and so it was an hour or more before he arrived."
She suddenly squeezed her white eyelids together hard, and her inflexible mouth trembled very slightly. Then she opened her eyes again. "When he arrived, he said that Mama had had a heart attack and that she was dying. I don't know what he gave her, but it must have been something murderously drastic. She died half an hour later. I always held him responsible. Had he not been there, Mama would be alive now and with us."
Jonathan was a little sorry for this obdurate girl. "And how did your father take her death?"
"I did not tell him until the morning. He had been very fatigued for over a week and needed his rest. I sat with Mama from the time she died until I knew that Papa had descended to the dining room and had been given his breakfast by Cook, and that he was quietly reading his newspaper before leaving for the university. That was about eight o'clock."
"And you had stayed alone with your dead mother all that night?"
"Yes." For the first time the young voice was not so crisp. Elvira bent her head for a moment. "When I told Papa, he said nothing. Nothing at all. He just sat there in his chair, looking at the last of the coffee in his cup. Then he quietly folded his newspaper and went up to Mama's room and closed the door behind him—forgetting he had a daughter at all—and he did not come out until the undertaker arrived. I was so relieved to see him. He hadn't shed a single tear, while my own face and eyes were swollen. He looked quite calm, almost his usual self. He spoke to me calmly, too, and patted my head. He kept saying, 'It's all right, Elvira. It's quite all right.' He was a tower of strength to me. He and I—we had been like parents to Mama—"
"Had your parents been fond of each other?"
"Oh, very. Mama was a little too young for her advanced age. She was never very serious, though she had had a good education and she had a superior mind. She
and Papa were always having their private little jokes together. Papa is a very sober man, but Mama could make him laugh like a boy. There was hardly a night, no matter the weather, but what they went alone on walks together, and they would go far up into the country—even as far as Central Park—in our carriage, alone, for Sunday drives, and sometimes they would take a lunch with them. They would come back laughing like children, sunburned and grass-stained and sleepy, and very happy."
For the first time she was faltering, and her throat kept forming little spasms as she struggled with her grief. She looked not at Jonathan now, but at the floor, and she was crushing a plain linen handkerchief in her long and pretty and competent hands.
Jonathan's voice was actually gentle when he said, "Did your father have other relatives, those close to him?"
"No, he had no one. He had been an orphan for years. He had no brothers or sisters, and only distant cousins he rarely saw. They lived hundreds of miles away; they didn't even correspond. He had no one but Mama and me." She paused. "Sometimes I think he thought he had only Mama!" Her voice broke.
"I'm sure you're wrong," said Jonathan. He thought of that quiet scholar whose only joy and laughter came from his wife. "I'm sure he knew, and knows, that he has a very devoted daughter, one of the best."
She looked up at him, startled and suspicious, but his face was so kind that she swallowed quickly and tried to keep from bursting into tears. "Thank you," she murmured. "I had only Mama and Papa myself, no sisters, no brothers, though I have gone out into the world far more than ever my parents did. I believe in wide associations and participations, and being part of humanity and events. I belong to many charitable committees and boards, and we do a great deal of good."
"I'm certain of that," said Jonathan, and refrained from wincing again. "As I see it, your father took your mother's death very calmly and sensibly."
The girl hesitated. "Indeed he did. Except he did one strange thing. He did not go to her funeral. In fact, on the morning of her funeral he disappeared. He was gone for two days. I did not notify the police. After all, I knew Papa would never be guilty of anything—exaggerated, if you follow me. I had never seen him much disturbed in all my life. He had a most equable temper and a consistent way of looking at life, and was very balanced. Once there had been a fear that he would lose his eyesight; that was four years ago. Mama went quite to pieces and we had a frightful time with her. But Papa never lost his equilibrium. Mama almost lost her mind with joy when the doctor notified us that he had been mistaken in his diagnosis, but Papa only smiled. He always had perfect control of himself and stability. I think I resemble him a little there."
"Yes," said Jonathan. "Yet, he disappeared on the day of your mother's funeral and stayed away two days. How did he appear when he returned, and what did he say?"
"He was very pale and exhausted but very calm, as usual. He gave me no explanation and I asked for none. He never spoke of Mama again. Not once, in eleven months. It is as if she had never lived and he had never known her, and she had never been in this house or in our house in New York. He went back to the university and then decided on a sabbatical to write his novel about Chaucer. My father is a very distinguished man," the girl added with pathetic pride. "He has received many honors and awards from famous scholars and their committees. He has spoken in London, Paris and Berlin, and he is a brilliant linguist, speaking foreign languages perfectly. He was much acclaimed everywhere he went. He has thought of this book for years and discussed it almost every night with Mama. They were like eager children about it. I'm glad that I can take Mama's place in this one thing, at least."
"Has he never visited her grave?"
The girl looked up at him, startled. "It is very odd that you should ask that! No, he has never gone to her grave. He has never even asked in what section of the cemetery she is buried. I never asked him to go with me at any time, for he was healing so nicely and I did not want to open his wounds again."
The trite words and clichés did not seem unpleasant to Jonathan but only very sad, for they had the freshness of devotion and grief. This girl was not so strong-minded as she believed she was. In her own way she had been as lonely and deprived as her father. What was wrong with such ostensibly independent and equable people? Were they really too sensitive to endure living without the safeguards of love, protective love, about them, and without the strength of others? Were they too proud to admit their terrible need? Must they condemn themselves to death in silence when the one reason for their living had vanished?
"And your father has seemed in good health, and sleeps well, since your mother died?"
The girl thought. "No," she said at last. "Of course, Papa never complains. He was never stout, but now he is quite gaunt. I'm sure you've noticed that. He eats very little, even of his favorite dishes. And I hear him walk up and down for hours in his room every night, back and forth, without saying a word. I thought he was thinking of his book. He was, wasn't he?" Her tone was suddenly girlish and abjectly pleading, for she had begun to follow the torturous way Jonathan was talking.
Jonathan went to her and took her hand and held it warmly. "Miss Elvira," he said, "I wish you were my sister. I truly do. I need a sister like you. I'd like to have a daughter almost exactly like yourself. Please don't look so incredulous; I mean it.
"Do you know what is wrong with your father? He is deliberately dying of grief for your mother. Everything else is shut out from him—you, his book, his work, his students, his friends. He has locked himself in a cave and is dying in darkness. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Now she was crying and did not know it.
"Tell me," he said, "what kind of a woman was your mother?"
"Oh, she was gentle and sweet and loving. A little woman, not tall like me." The girl snuffled frankly into her handkerchief. "Soft, plump. Papa used to call her his little bird. She was like a bird, to tell the truth. Not chirpy, but singing and gay. She used to tease me that I had no sense of humor at all, and I suppose I really don't. It wasn't that Mama was frivolous. She just accepted life and everything in it, and thought the world was wonderful even when it manifestly was not. She was very religious, too. She wanted everybody to—love God. Papa and I are agnostics, but sometimes, because of what Mama was, I thought there might really be a God, and I think Papa sometimes speculated on that, too. But it all left when Mama died. It was as if—as if—every- thing had been washed over with gray, so that there wasn't much color remaining in the world."
Robert had been listening in silence and in pity, and in surprise, too, at Jonathan's comforting of the girl, who had seemed such a formidable piece of self-righteous and narrow-minded intensity. Live and learn, thought young Robert.
"Your father," said Jonathan, "has been desperately trying to suppress his grief, to override it, to surmount it. He never gave it a chance to spend itself, and so he is still wounded, still suffering, perhaps more than he was at the very beginning. It is poisoning him. It is killing him. He wants to die. He sees no reason for living any longer."
The girl was shattered. "And I thought he was so very brave, and I was trying to measure up to his bravery myself, and all the time poor Papa—"
"And poor you," said Jonathan.
"Oh," cried Elvira, "what does it matter about me! But Papa is everything, important, needed, not to be replaced. Why can't he understand that?"
"Because I am afraid he always thought he never had anyone but your mother. I know that sounds harsh. But if you had been openly grieved, he would have comforted you and grieved with you, and you would have both been healed together. He thinks you are very strong and do not need him or anyone else. Isn't that the most ridiculous thing?"
"But, I'm not strong at all!" the girl blurted, and then she colored and looked abashed and sheepish. "I'm the ridiculous one. Do you know, Doctor, I always thought I should protect my unworldly parents!"
"One of these days," said Jonathan, "you are going to be a wonderful wife and mother, and I hope you hav
e a dozen children, except that you'll probably spoil them to death. I envy the man you are going to marry, though I hope he will be the kind you won't have to protect and would be outraged if you tried it."
"No," said Elvira, "Papa needs me. I have dedicated myself to him."
Not if I can help it, thought Jonathan, and patted the hand he still held. He said, "Do you have some spirits in the house? No. Well, I keep a flask of brandy in my bag. Elvira, do you trust me now?"
She looked up at him in hesitating wonderment. Then she said, "Why, Doctor, I believe I do. I really believe I do!" And smiled weakly through her tears.
Jonathan said to Robert, "Would you mind staying here alone with Elvira, Bob? I want to talk with her father."
He went back to the sick man's room and asked Mr. Kitchener and Maude to leave. Then he drew a chair to Dr. Burrows' bedside, and carefully poured a good round drink of brandy into a glass. "I want you to drink every drop of this," he said. "All at once. No sipping." He smiled kindly.
Dr. Burrows made a slow negative movement with his head. Jonathan put his arm about the thin shoulders and forced them upright and plumped the pillows under him. "Take your choice," he said. "You can swallow it or I'll give it to you as an enema. Either way is effectual, but one is less pleasant than another and a little messier."
The very shadow of a smile appeared on the high and unworldly face. Jonathan put the glass to Elmo's mouth and held it there until every drop was swallowed. It took considerable time. It had been a redoubtable amount. Elmo's face was quite suffused in consequence, and Jonathan then let him he back on his pillows. "A little water? Though it would be a shame to spoil the after-bouquet. No water? Good."
He sat back in his chair and crossed his elegant legs and looked at his watch. Then he stood up and walked about the room, picking up a book here and there and examining it. "Isn't Chaucer a little rich for innocent American minds?" he asked. "Remember, we have Anthony Comstock and other little Cromwells here. We're an awfully naive people, and a very simple one, and not too bright as yet. We still don't like to admit that ladies have legs and bowels and bladders, and are as avid after what is called 'carnal knowledge' as we are. We still don't want to admit that the world is a very evil place, and a bloodthirsty one, even a frightful one. We'd prefer to believe that it is sweet and lovely, full of laughing children and women who live only for others, and rulers who have the best interests of their people at heart. History, I read in some editorial a few weeks ago, is the evil page of the past, the far past. But from now on history will have nothing to record but the happiness of races and brotherly love and festivals and meeting-of-hands-across-the-sea, and the flowery dells of May, and songs, songs, songs. No more czars, no more kings, no more emperors, no more kaisers. Just one long lovefest of harmonious nations. That's what I read. Do you know what I call that?"