Part 15 (1/2)
”Do they pay you for it?” she continued, in an incisive tone.
”No, I don't think they will, nor can. It's not, that kind of a hospital,” answered the doctor gravely.
”And you will look after these people just as you do after Fogarty and the Brans...o...b.., and everybody else up and down the sh.o.r.e, and never take a penny in pay!” she retorted with some indignation.
”I am afraid I will, mother. A disappointing son, am I not? But there's no one to blame but yourself, old lady,” and with a laugh he rose from his seat, Jane's letter in his hand, and kissed his mother on the cheek.
”But, John, dear,” she exclaimed in a pleading petulance as she looked into his face, still holding on to the sleeve of his coat to detain him the longer, ”just think of this letter of Pencoyd's; nothing has ever been offered you better than this. He has the very best people in Philadelphia on his list, and you would get--”
The doctor slipped his hand under his mother's chin, as he would have done to a child, and said with a twinkle in his eye--he was very happy this morning:
”That's precisely my case--I've got the very best people in three counties on my list. That's much better than the old doctor.”
”Who are they, pray?” She was softening under her son's caress.
”Well, let me think. There's the distinguished Mr. Tatham, who attends to the transportation of the cities of Warehold and Barnegat; and the Right Honorable Mr. Tipple, and Mrs. and Miss Gossaway, renowned for their toilets--”
Mrs. Cavendish bit her lip. When her son was in one of these moods it was all she could do to keep her temper.
”And the wonderful Mrs. Malmsley, and--”
Mrs. Cavendish looked up. The name had an aristocratic sound, but it was unknown to her.
”Who is she?”
”Why, don't you know the wonderful Mrs. Malmsley?” inquired the doctor, with a quizzical smile.
”No, I never heard of her.”
”Well, she's just moved into Warehold. Poor woman, she hasn't been out of bed for years! She's the wife of the new butcher, and--”
”The butcher's wife?”
”The butcher's wife, my dear mother, a most delightful old person, who has brought up three sons, and each one a credit to her.”
Mrs. Cavendish let go her hold on the doctor's sleeve and settled back in her chair.
”And you won't even write to Dr. Pencoyd?” she asked in a disheartened way, as if she knew he would refuse.
”Oh, with pleasure, and thank him most kindly, but I couldn't leave Barnegat; not now. Not at any time, so far as I can see.”
”And I suppose when Jane Cobden comes home in a year or so she will work with you in the hospital. She wanted to turn nurse the last time I talked to her.” This special arrow in her maternal quiver, poisoned with her jealousy, was always ready.
”I hope so,” he replied, with a smile that lighted up his whole face; ”only it will not be a year. Miss Jane will be here on the next steamer.”
Mrs. Cavendish put down her tea-cup and looked at her son in astonishment. The doctor still kept his eyes on her face.
”Be here by the next steamer! How do you know?”
The doctor held up the letter.