Testimony Of Two Men (59 page)

They approached Rose Hill Road, which was a wide and quiet street with little traffic, for at the end of the street was an old cemetery, white and silent in the hot July sun. The houses on the road were called “cottages,” probably for the reason that they were enormously expensive and the owners were using euphemisms in reverse. All were built of tan field- stone, in rough imitation of “modest homes,” but all were surrounded by large lawns and secluded behind masses of great dark trees, and all possessed lavish and intricate gardens. As the houses were “cottages,” they were one architect’s dream of old English village cots in the sort of English villages which had not existed, to any extent, for nearly one hundred and fifty years. “He could never quite bring himself to thatch the roofs,” said Jonathan, as they rolled past the houses and Robert admired the flower-scented quiet and the deep shadows and the rich lawns. “It must have broken his heart to have to compromise on slate. But he’s gone wild on the unnecessarily high chimneys, as you’ll observe. And the darling little gates in the hedges. I’ve heard he even put in a few mazes in the rear, but that may be a vile canard. English ‘cottages’ or not, every owner is an Anglophobe, as aren’t we all in America today? Somehow, I have a feeling that will soon pass. We’ll need England and her empire for our own ambition one of these days, and then God help the British Empire. She’ll be hauling down her Union Jacks everywhere in the world, one after another. All in the name of liberation, of course, which will mean liberation from civilization, while America will nobly take on the white man’s burden and collect the ducats, and the power. The power above all. This is going to be a grand century for the man with a sense of sardonic humor. I’ve already detected the signs. Haven’t we already ‘liberated’ Cuba and the Philippines? This is small pence. Wait until we start liberating the whole damned world!”

“That’s a wild dream,” said Robert.

“Never underestimate the nightmares of men,” said Jonathan. “They’re the only authentic prophesies. Well, here we are, and isn’t that the prettiest sight you ever saw?”

The “cottage,” a simple structure of no more than twelve large rooms, nestled sweetly far back from the cobbled road in a crown of tall maples, and the flagged walk, of varicolored rough stones, meandered between clipped hedges and fragrant flowering bushes, bruised within inches of their blossoming life by stern shears. At the end of the walk there was a black iron gate, attached to no fence and having no other function but to add an air of protection to the small estate. Jonathan pushed it open, and they stepped on a wide field-stone terrace, filled with potted plants and white iron furniture on which no one would ever sit if he had any regard for his buttocks. A carved wooden door, on which was sur- mounted a brilliantly polished and brazen lion’s head, was warm to the touch. Absolute silence enveloped the house and the whole street, except for a faint rustling when a heated wind touched the trees, or a clipping of scissors indicated the presence, in the rear, of an industrious gardener. Jonathan banged the knocker vigorously, and protesting echoes went wandering up and down the road, and probably even disturbed the sleepers in the cemetery.

The door was opened by a trim little maid who almost curtsied, in the English manner, and admitted them to a deep stone hall with English furniture and old fine rugs. Albert Kitchener emerged from the dusky depths at the end, and with him came Maude, sweet and fresh as a rosebud in her blue voile dress with its crisp ruffles slipping over her pretty little arches. Her auburn head caught a ray of light from the open door and burnished her pink cheek and showed her dimpled little mouth and white chin and big, soft eyes. A little doll, thought Jonathan, who loved pretty women. Robert was bowing to her gravely but showed no admiration, which annoyed Jonathan, who gently pinched her cheek and pressed her hand. She smiled at him but could see only the oblivious Robert, and the pink in her cheeks deepened to a blush. Can’t he see what a lovely waist she has, and such a deep breast? thought Jonathan. And the dimples in her wrists and elbows? She’s a sweet morsel for any man, even if his mind is occupied by another woman. He’s probably one of those single-minded bastards.

“Good of you to come, dear Jon,” said Mr. Kitchener, shaking hands and beaming at the two young men. “Dr. Morgan. A lovely day yesterday, wasn’t it? Maude, will you tell Elvira our friends are here?” He led them into a reception room of noble proportions and furnished, unfortunately, in a cluttered Victorian style, all polished tables and vases and settees and chairs of horsehair and black marble fireplace and heavy draperies of bluish brocade over the handmade lace curtains. “Charming, isn’t it?” said Mr. Kitchener. “Very authentic. Mrs. Burrows inherited it from her parents, who used it as a summer home when away from Boston, and Elmo inherited it from her. He isn’t fond of it, sad to say. but then he’s an austere man, like most scholars and intellectuals.”

“Dr. Johnson was a lusty son of a bitch,” said Jonathan, “yet I think he had quite a reputation as one of your intellectuals. In my opinion, the more truly intellectual a man is the more he can appreciate the raw winey goodies of life, and the tankards, and the girls. The fraudulent intellectual, the poseur, pretends to prefer the ascetic life, the hypocrite. Probably he has atrophy- of his—” He stopped suddenly as Maude came into the room with another girl about her age, whom she introduced, somewhat extravagantly, as “my dearest, dearest friend, Miss Burrows.”

Maude had a sweet high voice, and she spoke always as if she were a little short of breath, but Elvira Burrows had the clear, no-nonsense voice and inflections of a boy. She was taller than Maude and she wore a starched dress of gray cotton with a plain round collar, and no ruffles even at her wrists, for her sleeves came all the way down even on this torrid and humid day, and the hem of her frock fell stiffly over her slippers with no promise of a revealed ankle or arch. But her black leather belt cinched a waist of extraordinary lissomeness, and the black buttons marching grimly from her collar to her soles had a sweet and rebellious way of rising over the proper little hills and indicating where her torso joined her swathed legs. There’s much to be said in favor of concealment, thought Jonathan, keenly noting these interesting facts. She has a splendid, if lean, figure, this girl. He left the figure, so definitely cut and neat, to look at Elvira’s face and head. Her face was long and pale, her features sharp yet curiously harmonious like a statue’s, and her brow was
a
smooth petrification, and her eyes were a clear hard gray between thick black lashes. Her mouth had little color but was of an excellent shape, one which Jonathan particularly admired. No cupid’s bow here, full and small in the fashionable manner, with what was called “a bee-stung lower Up.” Elvira’s mouth was wide and thin and firm with indented corners, very determined and resolute. Her hair was not dressed in the prevailing way, pompadour and combs and “rats,” and flourishes. It was dark brown and it was pulled back from the planed and clever and classic lines of her thin face, tightly braided then rolled into a severe crown on the top of her small head.

Maude, beside her, suddenly became one of those execrable dollies now so very popular, the fat little naked dollies, totally sexless, with a porcelain or bisque curl on the top of
a
round head, tied with a coquettish bow. Elvira was an aristocrat, unbending, scornful of furbelows and oramentation. She was all razor assertion and awareness. In a few years, when she had lost her youth, thought Jonathan, she would be a harridan, the terror of male relatives, the suzerain—fe-

male—of unfortunate lady connections. Unless, of course, some courageous man took pity on her soon and introduced her to softer delights than ruling everyone and everything on which her marbled eye fell. Apparently no such valorous man had as yet approached her, which was a pity, for such women could be very ardent when awakened, as Jonathan had learned before. He himself preferred a dry wine to a sweet, and he knew how tasty was the flesh around stony pomegranate seeds. He had a moment’s strong desire to alleviate Elvira’s sorry condition, if only temporarily, as a purely beneficent act.

She was looking at him and Robert Morgan with a sort of cool umbrage and disfavor. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said in a clear, plain enunciation without, of course, any gentleness or consciousness of her sex. She shook hands like a busy man, quick and short. “I wish to make it emphatic, however, that I hold doctors in no high regard.”

“Neither do I,” said Jonathan, with an excessively humble smile, which, for some reason, made those narrow cheeks color faintly. Now Elvira gave him her exclusive attention, but it was not kind. “Indeed,” she said, and the thin highbred nostrils of her nose flared a little. She paused, and gave him a keener and even more distasteful study. She was no fool, this girl. She swept her cold eyes over him, like a schoolmistress surveying a student who had been reported to her as incorrigible and worthy only of harsh dismissal and punishment, and she saw his dark and polished competence and his elegance, and the debonair way he stood and his dapper clothing. Then she looked fully into his eyes and slightly frowned and turned away. Her firm mouth had taken on a reluctant color, as if someone had kissed her forcibly.

“It was only through the importunities of Papa’s dear friend, Uncle Albert, that I have permitted medical”—she paused and made an unpleasant and contemptuous moue— “consultation. Papa really needs no one but me, and other nursing attention. However, gentlemen.” She had reached the hall again and was leading them, her very starchy frock rustling briskly, her heels clacking before them.

She took them past a regrettable drawing room so smothered in velvets and brocades and tapestries and glassed cabinets and draperies and horsehair that it seemed almost a travesty of the crowded Victorian era. She led them upstairs—a stairway of brick and Oriental runners—to the upper story, where the choked bedrooms lurked. It was darker here, for curtains were drawn against the few rays of the sun which could penetrate the maples, and it was distinctly cool. Jonathan and Robert were close on her heels, with Mr. Kitchener following and puffing a little, for the steps were steep in a “cottage” affectation, and Jonathan, catching Robert’s eye, made a deplorable gesture at Miss Elvira’s round but encased little bottom, and Robert murmured, “Tut, tut.” Behind them all came Maude, lifting her skirts high about her ankles. Unfortunately, Robert did not glance back at this delectable sight.

Elvira smartly opened one narrow door and entered without invitation to those following her. They entered another room of fine proportions, with white plastered walls and little casement windows open to the scented air and the green luster of leaves. A jade dusk filled the room, a luminous dusk. In the center stood a large, carved poster bed of ebony with
a
canopy of white muslin, and in it lay an absolutely immobile long figure which hardly raised the quilted counterpane. Here the room was less crowded and contained only a walnut and marble wardrobe, a highboy, two rocking chairs, a little rosewood desk, and one or two tables, and the floor was covered in a dark Brussels rug surrounded by darkly polished wood.

Elvira stood squarely and straightly beside her father’s bed and addressed, rather than talked to, the intruding physicians. “My father has had two strokes,” she announced, and Jonathan involuntarily looked for her notes. “One, two weeks ago, which almost completely paralyzed his entire body except for his hands. He has some control over his legs and—”

“His bodily functions, I hope,” Jonathan interrupted. “Very important, that control.”

Miss Elvira turned very white and the gray eyes glittered upon him, not with modesty or embarrassment, but with cold anger. She repeated precisely, “His bodily functions. In good and controlled order—Doctor. Please do not interrupt for
a
moment or two. I will be brief. Doctor.” She made the word sound like an imprecation, one a lady used only on the most extreme occasions. “He was able to communicate his wishes to me, though haltingly, until a few days ago. Thursday, to be exact. Then apparently he had another stroke, which cost him his voice. He cannot speak at all. We converse through his slight gestures—of his hands. He understands what I say, however, which is fortunate. He takes little nourishment, and that only liquid. I give him camomile tea or catnip tea at bedtime so he will rest comfortably. He sleeps without incident. I rest in one of these chairs so I will be able to hear his slightest movement. He does not stir—except for using that commode which you will observe beside his bed.” She stopped as if clipped off and regarded the doctors impersonally.

Robert spoke for the first time to her, and with indignation. “You never considered calling a physician, Miss Burrows?”

She did not look at him but only at Jonathan as she replied. “No. I have told you my opinion of doctors. This opinion does not rise out of ignorance but out of knowledge. My father’s condition is familiar to me. He needs only excellent nursing care and passive movements of his—his members— and quietness. In time we shall know if he will regain control over his muscles and speech or if he will be condemned to lifelong invalidism and be confined to his bed.”

“Of course,” said Jonathan, waving at Robert, who was seething visibly, “you know the proper medications to give him.”

“I am an advocate of herbs,” said Elvira with firmness. “Dandelion root for muscular stimulation. Sassafras bark for blood. Foxglove for circulation. Hot milk and honey for agitation of the mind. Lemon for appetite. Sulphur for intestinal cleansing. Cinnamon bark for restlessness, brewed in hot tea. Ginger in hot water for gastric upsets. Soda bathings. Foot baths.”

“I think,” said Jonathan, “that I will advocate taking your license to practice away from you, Miss Burrows. That, of course, will be only envy on my part. Have I your permission to examine your patient? For consultation purposes only, naturally. Then later, we will have a full medical discussion.”