having discovered that Clyde was related to the Griffiths, this
same Short had sought, as a means for his own general advancement
in other directions, to scrape as much of a genial and intimate
relationship with him as possible, only, as Clyde saw it, and in
view of the general attitude of his very high relatives, it had
not, up to this time at least, been possible for him to consider
any such intimacy seriously. And yet, finding Short so very
affable and helpful in general, he was not above reaching at least
an easy and genial surface relationship with him, which Short
appeared to accept in good part. Indeed, as at first, his manner
remained seeking and not a little sycophantic at times. And so it
was that among all those with whom he could be said to be in either
intimate or casual contact, Short was about the only one who
offered even a chance for an inquiry which might prove productive
of some helpful information.
In consequence, in passing Short's place each evening and morning,
once he thought of him in this light, he made it a point to nod and
smile in a most friendly manner, until at least three days had gone
by. And then, feeling that he had paved the way as much as his
present predicament would permit, he stopped in, not at all sure
that on this first occasion he would be able to broach the
dangerous subject. The tale he had fixed upon to tell Short was
that he had been approached by a young working-man in the factory,
newly-married, who, threatened with an heir and not being able to
afford one as yet, had appealed to him for information as to where
he might now find a doctor to help him. The only interesting
additions which Clyde proposed to make to this were that the young
man, being very poor and timid and not so very intelligent, was not
able to speak or do much for himself. Also that he, Clyde, being
better informed, although so new locally as not to be able to
direct him to any physician (an after-thought intended to put the
idea into Short's mind that he himself was never helpless and so
not likely ever to want such advice himself), had already advised
the young man of a temporary remedy. But unfortunately, so his
story was to run, this had already failed to work. Hence something
more certain--a physician, no less--was necessary. And Short,
having been here longer, and, as he had heard him explain, hailing
previously from Gloversville, it was quite certain, as Clyde now
argued with himself, that he would know of at least one--or should.
But in order to divert suspicion from himself he was going to add
that of course he probably could get news of some one in his own
set, only, the situation being so unusual (any reference to any
such thing in his own world being likely to set his own group
talking), he preferred to ask some one like Short, who as a favor
would keep it quiet.
As it chanced on this occasion, Short himself, owing to his having
done a very fair day's business, was in an exceedingly jovial frame
of mind. And Clyde having entered, to buy a pair of socks,
perhaps, he began: "Well, it's good to see you again, Mr.
Griffiths. How are you? I was just thinking it's about time you
stopped in and let me show you some of the things I got in since
you were here before. How are things with the Griffiths Company
anyhow?"
Short's manner, always brisk, was on this occasion doubly
reassuring, since he liked Clyde, only now the latter was so
intensely keyed up by the daring of his own project that he could
scarcely bring himself to carry the thing off with the air he would
have liked to have employed.
Nevertheless, being in the store and so, seemingly, committed to
the project, he now began: "Oh, pretty fair. Can't kick a bit.
I always have all I can do, you know." At the same time he began
nervously fingering some ties hung upon movable nickeled rods. But
before he had wasted a moment on these, Mr. Short, turning and
spreading some boxes of very special ties from a shelf behind him
on the glass case, remarked: "Never mind looking at those, Mr.
Griffiths. Look at these. These are what I want to show you and
they won't cost YOU any more. Just got 'em in from New York this
morning." He picked up several bundles of six each, the very
latest, as he explained. "See anything else like this anywhere
around here yet? I'll say you haven't." He eyed Clyde smilingly,
the while he wished sincerely that such a young man, so well
connected, yet not rich like the others, would be friends with him.
It would place him here.
Clyde, fingering the offerings and guessing that what Short was
saying was true, was now so troubled and confused in his own mind
that he could scarcely think and speak as planned. "Very nice,
sure," he said, turning them over, feeling that at another time he
would have been pleased to possess at least two. "I think maybe
I'll take this one, anyhow, and this one, too." He drew out two
and held them up, while he was thinking how to broach the so much
more important matter that had brought him here. For why should he
be troubling to buy ties, dilly-dallying in this way, when all he
wanted to ask Short about was this other matter? Yet how hard it
was now--how very hard. And yet he really must, although perhaps
not so abruptly. He would look around a little more at first in
order to allay suspicion--ask about some socks. Only why should he
be doing that, since he did not need anything, Sondra only recently
having presented him with a dozen handkerchiefs, some collars, ties
and socks. Nevertheless every time he decided to speak he felt a
sort of sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach, a fear that he
could not or would not carry the thing off with the necessary ease
and conviction. It was all so questionable and treacherous--so
likely to lead to exposure and disgrace in some way. He would
probably not be able to bring himself to speak to Short to-night.
And yet, as he argued with himself, how could the occasion ever be
more satisfactory?
Short, in the meantime having gone to the rear of the store and now
returning, with a most engaging and even sycophantic smile on his
face, began with: "Saw you last Tuesday evening about nine o'clock
going into the Finchleys' place, didn't I? Beautiful house and
grounds they have there."
Clyde saw that Short really was impressed by his social station
here. There was a wealth of admiration mingled with a touch of
servility. And at once, because of this, he took heart, since he
realized that with such an attitude dominating the other, whatever
he might say would be colored in part at least by his admirer's awe
and respect. And after examining the socks and deciding that one
pair at least would soften the difficulty of his demand, he added:
"Oh, by the way, before I forget it. There's something I've been
wanting to ask you about. Maybe you can tell me what I want to
know. One of the boys at the factory--a young fellow who hasn't
been married very long--about four months now, I guess--is in a
little trouble on account of his wife." He paused, because of his
uncertainty as to whether he could succeed with this now or not,
seeing that Short's expression changed ever so slightly. And yet,
having gone so far, he did not know how to recede. So now he
laughed nervously and then added: "I don't know why they always
come to me with their troubles, but I guess they think I ought to
know all about these things." (He laughed again.) "Only I'm about
as new and green here as anybody and so I'm kinda stumped. But
you've been here longer than I have, I guess, and so I thought I
might ask you."
His manner as he said this was as nonchalant as he could make it,
the while he decided now that this was a mistake--that Short would
most certainly think him a fool or queer. Yet Short, taken back by
the nature of the query, which he sensed as odd coming from Clyde
to him (he had noted Clyde's sudden restraint and slight
nervousness), was still so pleased to think that even in connection
with so ticklish a thing as this, he should be made the recipient
of his confidence, that he instantly recovered his former poise and
affability, and replied: "Why, sure, if it's anything I can help
you with, Mr. Griffiths, I'll be only too glad to. Go ahead, what
is it?"
"Well, it's this way," began Clyde, not a little revived by the
other's hearty response, yet lowering his voice in order to give
the dreadful subject its proper medium of obscurity, as it were.
"His wife's already two months gone and he can't afford a kid yet
and he doesn't know how to get rid of it. I told him last month
when he first came to me to try a certain medicine that usually
works"--this to impress Short with his own personal wisdom and
resourcefulness in such situations and hence by implication to
clear his own skirts, as it were--"But I guess he didn't handle it
right. Anyhow he's all worked up about it now and wants to see
some doctor who could do something for her, you see. Only I don't
know anybody here myself. Haven't been here long enough. If it
were Kansas City or Chicago now," he interpolated securely, "I'd
know what to do. I know three or four doctors out there." (To
impress Short he attempted a wise smile.) "But down here it's
different. And if I started asking around in my crowd and it ever
got back to my relatives, they wouldn't understand. But I thought
if you knew of any one you wouldn't mind telling me. I wouldn't
really bother myself, only I'm sorry for this fellow."
He paused, his face, largely because of the helpful and interested
expression on Short's, expressing more confidence than when he had
begun. And although Short was still surprised he was more than
pleased to be as helpful as he could.
"You say it's been two months now."
"Yes."
"And the stuff you suggested didn't work, eh?"
"No."
"She's tried it again this month, has she?"
"Yes."
"Well, that is bad, sure enough. I guess she's in bad all right.
The trouble with this place is that I haven't been here so very
long either, Mr. Griffiths. I only bought this place about a year
and a half ago. Now, if I were over in Gloversville--" He paused
for a moment, as though, like Clyde, he too were dubious of the
wisdom of entering upon details of this kind, but after a few
seconds continued: "You see a thing like that's not so easy,
wherever you are. Doctors are always afraid of getting in trouble.
I did hear once of a case over there, though, where a girl went to
a doctor--a fellow who lived a couple miles out. But she was of
pretty good family too, and the fellow who took her to him was
pretty well-known about there. So I don't know whether this doctor
would do anything for a stranger, although he might at that. But I
know that sort of thing is going on all the time, so you might try.
If you wanta send this fellow to him, tell him not to mention me or
let on who sent him, 'cause I'm pretty well-known around there and
I wouldn't want to be mixed up in it in case anything went wrong,
you see. You know how it is."
And Clyde, in turn, replied gratefully: "Oh, sure, he'll
understand all right. I'll tell him not to mention any names." And
getting the doctor's name, he extracted a pencil and notebook from
his pocket in order to be sure that the important information
should not escape him.
Short, sensing his relief, was inclined to wonder whether there was
a working-man, or whether it was not Clyde himself who was in this
scrape. Why should he be speaking for a young working-man at the
factory? Just the same, he was glad to be of service, though at
the same time he was thinking what a bit of local news this would
be, assuming that any time in the future he should choose to retail
it. Also that Clyde, unless he was truly playing about with some
girl here who was in trouble, was foolish to be helping anybody
else in this way--particularly a working-man. You bet he wouldn't.
Nevertheless he repeated the name, with the initials, and the exact
neighborhood, as near as he could remember, giving the car stop and
a description of the house. Clyde, having obtained what he
desired, now thanked him, and then went out while the haberdasher
looked after him genially and a little suspiciously. These rich
young bloods, he thought. That's a funny request for a fellow like
that to make of me. You'd think with all the people he knows and
runs with here he'd know some one who would tip him off quicker
than I could. Still, maybe, it's just because of them that he is
afraid to ask around here. You don't know who he might have got in
trouble--that young Finchley girl herself, even. You never can
tell. I see him around with her occasionally, and she's gay
enough. But, gee, wouldn't that be the...
Chapter 37
The information thus gained was a relief, but only partially so.
For both Clyde and Roberta there was no real relief now until this
problem should be definitely solved. And although within a few
moments after he had obtained it, he appeared and explained that at
last he had secured the name of some one who might help her, still
there was yet the serious business of heartening her for the task
of seeing the doctor alone, also for the story that was to
exculpate him and at the same time win for her sufficient sympathy
to cause the doctor to make the charge for his service merely
nominal.
But now, instead of protesting as at first he feared that she
might, Roberta was moved to acquiesce. So many things in Clyde's
attitude since Christmas had so shocked her that she was bewildered
and without a plan other than to extricate herself as best she
might without any scandal attaching to her or him and then going
her own way--pathetic and abrasive though it might be. For since
he did not appear to care for her any more and plainly desired to
be rid of her, she was in no mood to compel him to do other than he
wished. Let him go. She could make her own way. She had, and she
could too, without him, if only she could get out of this. Yet, as
she said this to herself, however, and a sense of the full
significance of it all came to her, the happy days that would never
be again, she put her hands to her eyes and brushed away
uncontrollable tears. To think that all that was should come to
this.
Yet when he called the same evening after visiting Short, his
manner redolent of a fairly worth-while achievement, she merely
said, after listening to his explanation in as receptive a manner
as she could: "Do you know just where this is, Clyde? Can we get
there on the car without much trouble, or will we have to walk a
long way?" And after he had explained that it was but a little way
out of Gloversville, in the suburbs really, an interurban stop
being but a quarter of a mile from the house, she had added: "Is
he home at night, or will we have to go in the daytime? It would
be so much better if we could go at night. There'd be so much less
danger of any one seeing us." And being assured that he was, as
Clyde had learned from Short, she went on: "But do you know is he
old or young? I'd feel so much easier and safer if he were old. I
don't like young doctors. We've always had an old doctor up home
and I feel so much easier talking to some one like him."
Clyde did not know. He had not thought to inquire, but to reassure
her he ventured that he was middle-aged--which chanced to be the
fact.
The following evening the two of them departed, but separately as
usual, for Fonda, where it was necessary to change cars. And once
within the approximate precincts of the physician's residence, they
stepped down and made their way along a road, which in this mid-
state winter weather was still covered with old and dry-packed
snow. It offered a comparatively smooth floor for their quick
steps. For in these days, there was no longer that lingering
intimacy which formerly would have characterized both. In those
other and so recent days, as Roberta was constantly thinking, he
would have been only too glad in such a place as this, if not on
such an occasion, to drag his steps, put an arm about her waist,
and talk about nothing at all--the night, the work at the factory,
Mr. Liggett, his uncle, the current movies, some place they were
planning to go, something they would love to do together if they
could. But now... And on this particular occasion, when most
of all, and if ever, she needed the full strength of his devotion
and support! Yet now, as she could see, he was most nervously
concerned as to whether, going alone in this way, she was going to
get scared and "back out"; whether she was going to think to say
the right thing at the right time and convince the doctor that he
must do something for her, and for a nominal fee.
"Well, Bert, how about you? All right? You're not going to get
cold feet now, are you? Gee, I hope not because this is going to
be a good chance to get this thing done and over with. And it
isn't like you were going to some one who hadn't done anything like
this before, you know, because this fellow has. I got that
straight. All you have to do now, is to say, well, you know, that
you're in trouble, see, and that you don't know how you're going to
get out of it unless he'll help you in some way, because you
haven't any friends here you can go to. And besides, as things
are, you couldn't go to 'em if you wanted to. They'd tell on you,
see. Then if he asks where I am or who I am, you just say that I
was a fellow here--but that I've gone--give any name you want to,
but that I've gone, and you don't know where I've gone to--run
away, see. Then you'd better say, too, that you wouldn't have come
to him only that you heard of another case in which he helped some
one else--that a girl told you, see. Only you don't want to let on
that you're paid much, I mean,--because if you do he may want to
make the bill more than I can pay, see, unless he'll give us a few
months in which to do it, or something like that, you see."
Clyde was so nervous and so full of the necessity of charging
Roberta with sufficient energy and courage to go through with this
and succeed, now that he had brought her this far along with it,
that he scarcely realized how inadequate and trivial, even, in so
far as her predicament and the doctor's mood and temperament were
concerned, his various instructions and bits of inexperienced
advice were. And she on her part was not only thinking how easy it
was for him to stand back and make suggestions, while she was
confronted with the necessity of going forward, and that alone, but
also that he was really thinking more of himself than he was of
her--some way to make her get herself out of it inexpensively and
without any real trouble to him.
At the same time, even here and now, in spite of all this, she was
still decidedly drawn to him--his white face, his thin hands,
nervous manner. And although she knew he talked to encourage her
to do what he had not the courage or skill to do himself, she was
not angry. Rather, she was merely saying to herself in this crisis
that although he advised so freely she was not going to pay
attention to him--much. What she was going to say was not that she
was deserted, for that seemed too much of a disagreeable and self-
incriminating remark for her to make concerning herself, but rather
that she was married and that she and her young husband were too
poor to have a baby as yet--the same story Clyde had told the
druggist in Schenectady, as she recalled. For after all, what did
he know about how she felt? And he was not going with her to make
it easier for her.
Yet dominated by the purely feminine instinct to cling to some one
for support, she now turned to Clyde, taking hold of his hands and
standing quite still, wishing that he would hold and pet her and
tell her that it was all right and that she must not be afraid.
And although he no longer cared for her, now in the face of this
involuntary evidence of her former trust in him, he released both
hands and putting his arms about her, the more to encourage her
than anything else, observed: "Come on now, Bert. Gee, you can't
act like this, you know. You don't want to lose your nerve now
that we're here, do you? It won't be so hard once you get there.
I know it won't. All you got to do is to go up and ring the bell,
see, and when he comes, or whoever comes, just say you want to see
the doctor alone, see. Then he'll understand it's something
private and it'll be easier."
He went on with more advice of the same kind, and she, realizing
from his lack of spontaneous enthusiasm for her at this moment how
desperate was her state, drew herself together as vigorously as she
could, and saying: "Well, wait here, then, will you? Don't go
very far away, will you? I may be right back," hurried along in
the shadow through the gate and up a walk which led to the front
door.
In answer to her ring the door was opened by one of those
exteriorly as well as mentally sober, small-town practitioners who,
Clyde's and Short's notion to the contrary notwithstanding, was the
typical and fairly conservative physician of the countryside--
solemn, cautious, moral, semi-religious to a degree, holding some
views which he considered liberal and others which a fairly liberal
person would have considered narrow and stubborn into the bargain.
Yet because of the ignorance and stupidity of so many of those
about him, he was able to consider himself at least fairly learned.
In constant touch with all phases of ignorance and dereliction as
well as sobriety, energy, conservatism, success and the like, he
was more inclined, where fact appeared to nullify his early
conclusion in regard to many things, to suspend judgment between
the alleged claims of heaven and hell and leave it there suspended
and undisturbed. Physically he was short, stocky, bullet-headed
and yet interestingly-featured, with quick gray eyes and a pleasant
mouth and smile. His short iron-gray hair was worn "bangs"
fashion, a bit of rural vanity. And his arms and hands, the latter
fat and pudgy, yet sensitive, hung limply at his sides. He was
fifty-eight, married, the father of three children, one of them a
son already studying medicine in order to succeed to his father's
practice.
After showing Roberta into a littered and commonplace waiting room
and asking her to remain until he had finished his dinner, he
presently appeared in the door of an equally commonplace inner
room, or office, where were his desk, two chairs, some medical
instruments, books and apparently an ante-chamber containing other
medical things, and motioned her to a chair. And because of his
grayness, solidity, stolidity, as well as an odd habit he had of
blinking his eyes, Roberta was not a little overawed, though by no
means so unfavorably impressed as she had feared she might be. At
least he was old and he seemed intelligent and conservative, if not
exactly sympathetic or warm in his manner. And after looking at
her curiously a moment, as though seeking to recognize some one of
the immediate vicinity, he began: "Well, now who is this, please?
And what can I do for you?" His voice was low and quite
reassuring--a fact for which Roberta was deeply grateful.
At the same time, startled by the fact that at last she had reached
the place and the moment when, if ever, she must say the degrading
truth about herself, she merely sat there, her eyes first upon him,
then upon the floor, her fingers beginning to toy with the handle
of the small bag she carried.
"You see, well," she began, earnestly and nervously, her whole
manner suddenly betraying the terrific strain under which she was
laboring. "I came... I came... that is... I don't know
whether I can tell you about myself or not. I thought I could just
before I came in, but now that I am here and I see you..." She
paused and moved back in her chair as though to rise, at the same
time that she added: "Oh, dear, how very dreadful it all is. I'm
so nervous and..."
"Well, now, my dear," he resumed, pleasantly and reassuringly,
impressed by her attractive and yet sober appearance and wondering
for the moment what could have upset so clean, modest and sedate-
looking a girl, and hence not a little amused by her "now that I
see you,"--"Just what is there about me 'now that you see me,'" he
repeated after her, "that so frightens you? I am only a country
doctor, you know, and I hope I'm not as dreadful as you seem to
think. You can be sure that you can tell me anything you wish--
anything at all about yourself--and you needn't be afraid. If
there's anything I can do for you, I'll do it."
He was decidedly pleasant, as she now thought, and yet so sober and
reserved and probably conventional withal that what she was holding
in mind to tell him would probably shock him not a little--and then
what? Would he do anything for her? And if he would, how was she
to arrange about money, for that certainly would be a point in
connection with all this? If only Clyde or some one were here to
speak for her. And yet she must speak now that she was here. She
could not leave without. Once more she moved and twisted, seizing
nervously on a large button of her coat to turn between her thumb
and forefinger, and then went on chokingly.
"But this is... this is... well, something different, you
know, maybe not what you think.... I... I... well..."
Again she paused, unable to proceed, shading from white to red and
back as she spoke. And because of the troubled modesty of her
approach, as well as a certain clarity of eye, whiteness of
forehead, sobriety of manner and dress, the doctor could scarcely
bring himself to think for a moment that this was anything other
than one of those morbid exhibitions of innocence, or rather
inexperience, in connection with everything relating to the human
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