Part 20 (1/2)

And so we trooped off to Dr. Porter's office. He was waiting for us, clad in an immaculate white jacket. Frances entrusted her hat to Frieda and sat down quietly on a chair in a dark corner. Porter drew down some blinds, whereby we were plunged in semi-darkness, and turned on a powerful light which strongly illumined a small circle of his patient's face. I was sitting down on a sofa, rather close to Frieda. A few moments later we were leaning on one another for support. One of her good fat hands was trembling a little, in mine, which may possibly have been similarly affected.

”We'll take lots of time,” I heard Porter say. ”Yes, this is novocaine.

Open wide now--breathe through your mouth--slowly. That's very good--now rest a little. Once again, I want to get a thorough anaesthesia--another little rest--we are in no hurry. Don't be afraid. You have the finest throat to work on I ever saw, a superb control over it. That comes from all the training I have given you--now the last touch of novocaine--that's all right--you'll feel nothing--I'm very sure.”

Frieda was digging her nails into my hand, excruciatingly, and we both breathed hard as we saw Porter take up other long and s.h.i.+ny tools that gleamed in the obscurity. He was doing something with them, quietly, with a constant flow of encouraging language. I wondered how the man's voice could remain so calm. Frieda's left heel rested for a moment on my right big toe, crus.h.i.+ngly, but she knew not what she was doing, and I bore the torture without a cry, till I could push her away. I had not realized that a man could suffer so much. And Porter was still working away, looking ghostly in the penumbra. Then, suddenly, he let out an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n imitated from the Comanches, rose from his chair, ran to the window and admitted a flood of light that nearly blinded us. Frieda, shamefaced, lifted her head from my shoulder and rose with incredible swiftness.

”Is--is it all over?” she asked, tremulously.

”Surest thing you know,” replied our young friend. ”The finest little growth upon the right chord you ever saw. I had made up my mind not to go at it halfc.o.c.ked, and that's why I've taken so much time to get her so that a fellow could do anything he wanted to her larynx. But it pays, I can tell you!”

”And--and will I be able to sing again?” asked Frances, hoa.r.s.ely.

”You will have to use your voice just as little as possible for a few days,” he answered. ”Not a word more than you can help. I hope--I believe that you will be able to sing again, after the chord heals up, but you must not try for a long time. And then it will take a lot of practice, of course, because your throat has forgotten nearly all it ever knew about singing. It will have to come back slowly and gradually.

Be sure and come in to-morrow and let me have a look at it.”

Frances thanked him, huskily, and Frieda and I wrung his hand. After this we left, in the bright suns.h.i.+ne of a day of cloudless skies, and returned to Mrs. Milliken's, where I left the two women at the door, returning a half an hour later with a small bunch of pink roses. When I reached my landing, her door was open; Frieda was at work with a crochet needle on a diminutive blue sock, while Frances was lying down on the sofa. She never looked up as I came in, for her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite]

”Maybe I shall sing to you after all, _mon pet.i.t Paul cheri_,” she said, hoa.r.s.ely, and looked up at me, a few tears in her eyes vanis.h.i.+ng as she saw the buds I was bringing her.

My finger went to my mouth, as an invitation to silence.

”You have spoken to Master Paul,” I said, ”and we will have to forgive you. It would have been cruel to forbid you such small comfort. But now, Frieda and I are to attend to all the conversation, for you are to keep as silent as the Sphynx. Eulalie, will you be so kind as to put these flowers in water?”

A moment later came up a messenger with a box, an oblong cardboard thing of immense size. I signed his ticket and bestowed ten cents upon him, because he had curly hair and a snub nose. Then, at a signal from Frances, I opened the box, from which cascaded American Beauties, lilies of the valley and several sprigs of white lilac. I handed the enclosed card to the little mother. She had been staring at the flowers and gazed at the pasteboard in wonder. Then she pa.s.sed it over to me. It was one of Gordon's, marked ”With best wishes. Please don't think of coming for a few days until you are quite well.”

”Isn't it nice of him!” exclaimed Frieda, rus.h.i.+ng out of the room.

Presently, she returned, bearing two icewater pitchers and a dreadful china vase in which she disposed the flowers, placing them on the mantel-piece. But I was touched when I saw that she put my little roses on the table, in the middle of the room, and told Frances what a delightful odor they had.

”I--I never told him I was going to have the operation,” whispered the latter.

”I think I mentioned it to him a few days ago,” I said, ”and he evidently remembered.”

”Gordon is the dearest fellow,” declared Frieda. ”Frances, you will have to sit down and write him a little note, this evening. And now lie down again on the sofa, my dear, and I'll read the paper to you, if you like.

Here is the fas.h.i.+on part of the _Times_. There is not the slightest doubt that skirts are going to be worn short and somewhat fuller than last year, and the footwear is going to be very elaborate. For my part, I refuse to wear shoes with white uppers because they make fat ankles look ever so much bigger. Oh! Just look at this design for an evening dress!”

I withdrew, seeing them so well occupied. It was only then that I remembered I had had no breakfast, so I took my hat and went out for a solitary refection of coffee and omelette. Pa.s.sing in front of the erstwhile dyeing and cleaning establishment, I noted that much blistered paint had been sc.r.a.ped off and read a sign stating that the shop would be opened again in a couple of weeks. This looked hopeful; once again will the wind be tempered to the poor lamb. Gordon will finish his picture and she will return to keeping accounts and advising anxious ladies as to the possibilities of renovating sere and yellow waists and skirts. It does not seem probable to me that she will sing again, in spite of the ordeal she has been through. It would sound like too good a thing to be true, and she can't speak above a whisper.

Later in the afternoon, after I had taken a hygienic walk, followed by the absorption of varied information from the papers, Frieda came in again. She considers Frances as a person requiring the utmost care and has brought her a pink shawl to put over her shoulders. I have seen it hang for years from a gas-fixture in Frieda's parlor.

When I proposed the usual refection of tea, Frieda held my arm as if the little pot I brandished had been a lethal weapon, with which I expected to destroy our patient. How could I venture on the responsibility of giving Frances tea without knowing whether it would be good for her? I declared that I would go and find out, and clattered down the stairs, rus.h.i.+ng over to Porter's. The street was steeped in sabbatical peace and I reflected that the doctor would probably be out, attending to his growing practice and soothing the fevered brow. The rather slouchy maid of all work opened the door. Looking down the hall I saw Porter's red head issuing cautiously from the edge of a portiere. A look of relief came to his features, and he came to me.

”Anything wrong?” he asked.

”No, I came to find out whether it is safe to give Mrs. Dupont a cup of tea?”