The Disagreeable Woman
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"I don't have to pay for her on the horse-cars."
"Madam," I said, provoked, "I will not argue with you. You ought to know that no physician treats children free. If you were very poor, and lived in a tenement house, I might make some discount, or leave off the charge altogether."
"But I don't live in a tenement house," objected the lady, angrily.
"No; you have the appearance of being very well to do. I must distinctly decline abating my charge."
"Then, Dr. Fenwick," said the mother, stiffly, "I shall not employ you again."
"That is as you please, madam."
This seemed to me exceptionally mean, but doctors see a good deal of the mean side of human nature. Rich men with large incomes keep them out of their pay for a long time, sometimes where their lives depended on the physician's skill and fidelity. Oftentimes I have been so disgusted with the meanness of my patients, that I have regretted not choosing a different profession. Of course there is a different side to the picture, and gratitude and appreciation are to be found, as well as the opposite qualities.
I had been waiting a long time without a patient, when a shuffling sound was heard on the stairs, and a heavy step approaching the door.
Next came a knock.
Instead of calling out, "Come in!" I was so pleased at the prospect of a patient, that I rose from my seat and opened the door, myself.
I started back in surprise. For in the heavy, lumbering figure of the new arrival I recognized Prof. Poppendorf.
"Prof. Poppendorf!" I exclaimed.
"Ja, doctor, it is I. May I come in?"
"Certainly."
Supposing that he had come to consult me on the subject of his health, I began to wonder from what disease he was suffering. Remembering his achievements at the table I fancied it might be dyspepsia.
The Professor entered the room, and sank into an armchair, which he quite filled from side to side.
"I suppose you are surprised to see me, Herr Doctor," began the Professor.
"Oh, no. I am never surprised to see anybody. I had not supposed you were sick."
"Sick! Oh, no, I'm all right. I eat well and I sleep well. What should be the matter with me?"
"I am glad to hear such good reports of you."
Was I quite sincere? I am afraid it was a disappointment to learn that my supposed patient was in no need of advice.
"Ja, I am well. I was never better, thank God!"
"Then I am to consider this a social call," I said with affected cheerfulness. "You are very kind to call upon me, Prof. Poppendorf. I appreciate it as a friendly attention."
"No, it is not quite dat."
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"I come on a little peezness."
I was puzzled. I could not understand what business there could be between the Professor and myself.
"I shall be glad to hear what it is."
"You see, I thought I would ask you if you were courting Mees Ruth Canby, if you mean to make her your wife?"
I dropped into the nearest chair—I had been standing—in sheer amazement. To be asked my intentions in regard to the young woman from Macy's was most astonishing, and by Prof. Poppendorf, too!
"Did Miss Canby send you here to speak to me?" I asked, considerably annoyed.
"Oh, no! she knows nothing about it."
"I can't understand what you have to do in the matter, Prof. Poppendorf. You are neither her father nor her brother."
"Oh, ja, you are quite right."
"Then why do you come to me with such a question?"
"I thought I would like to know myself."
"I deny your right to speak to me on the subject," I said, stiffly. "If now you had a good reason."
"But I have a reason," protested the Professor, earnestly.
"What is it?"
"I lofe her myself. I wish to make her my frau."
This was most astonishing.
"You love her yourself?"
"Ja, Herr Doctor."
"And you want to marry her?"
"Ja."
"But you are an old man."
"Not so old," said he, jealously; "I am only a little over sixty."
"And I think she cannot be over twenty-one."
"But I am a good man. I am strong. I am well. Look here!" and he struck his massive chest a sturdy blow, as if to show how sound he was.
"Yes, you seem to be well."
"You have not told me, Herr Doctor, if you lofe Mees Ruth," he said, uneasily.
"No, I don't love her."
"But you called to see her—at Macy's."
"I called to buy some socks and handkerchiefs."
"Was that all?" he asked, with an air of relief.
"It was all."
"Then you do not wish to marry Mees Ruth?"
"I do not wish to marry any one. I am not rich enough. Are you?"
"I have just engage to teach philosophy at Mees Smith's school on Madison Avenue. Then I have my private pupils. Ah, ja, I will make quite an income," he said, complacently. "Besides, Mees Ruth, she is a good housekeeper."
"I do not know."
"She will not wish to spend money," he said, anxiously.
"I think she was brought up economically."
"Ja, dat is good. All the German frauleins are good housekeepers. Dey can cook and keep house on a little money."
"Were you ever married, Professor?"
"Ja, long ago, but my frau she not live very long. It is many years ago."
"If you married Miss Canby would you still board here?"
"No, it would cost too much money. I would hire an apartment—what you call a flat, and Mees Ruth would keep the house—she would wash, she would cook, and—"
"Take care of the babies," I added, jocularly.
"Dat is as God wills."
"Have you spoken to Miss Ruth on the subject?"
"No, not yet. I wish to speak to you first—I thought you might want to marry her yourself."
"You need have no anxiety on that subject; I never thought of such a thing."
"Dat is good. I feel better."
"Have you any idea that Miss Canby will agree to marry you?"
"I do not know. I am a Herr Professor," he said, proudly.
In Germany there is a high respect felt for titles of every kind, and the Professor evidently thought that his official dignity would impress the young woman from Macy's.
"Still, you are so much older than she, that she may not at first like the idea."
"You think she refuse me—that she gives me the mitten?" he said, uneasily.
"If you propose too quick. Will you take my advice?"
"Ja, ja!"
"Then don't propose at once. Let her get accustomed to your attentions."
"What shall I do first?" he asked, anxiously.
"Suppose you invite her to go to the theatre with you?"
"Ja, dat is good!"
"Perhaps you could take her to hear Patti?"
"No, no. It cost too much!" said he, shaking his head.
"Then you might invite her to the Star Theatre to see Crane."
"So I will."
He rose and shuffled out of the office in a very pleasant humor. He felt that there was no obstacle to his suit, now that I had disclaimed all intention of marrying the young woman from Macy's.
CHAPTER IX.
AN EVENING AT THE BOARDING-HOUSE
The confidence which Prof. Poppendorf had reposed in me, naturally led me to observe his behavior at table to the young woman from Macy's. There was a difficulty as I had to look round the "Disagreeable Woman," who sat next to me. Then I could not very well watch the Professor's expression, as his large, green goggles concealed so large a part of his face.
He still continued to devote the chief part of his time to the business of the hour, and his eyes were for the most part fixed upon his plate. Yet now and then I observed he offered her the salt or the pepper, a piece of attention quite new to him. I had some thought of suggesting to Miss Canby that she had awakened an interest in the heart of the gray old Professor, but it occurred to me that this would be hardly fair to the elderly suitor. It was only right to leave him a fair field, and let him win if Fate ordained it.
On Wednesday evenings it was generally understood that the boarders, such at any rate as had no other engagements, would remain after supper and gather in the little reception-room, till the dining-room was cleared, spending the evening socially.
On such occasions Mrs. Wyman would generally volunteer a song, accompanying herself if there was no one else to play. She had a thin, strident voice, such as one would not willingly hear a second time, but out of courtesy we listened, and applauded. The widow had one who fully appreciated her vocal efforts, and this was herself. She always looked pleased and complacent when her work was done.
It was on the first Wednesday after the Count's arrival that she induced him to remain.
"Don't you sing, Count?" she asked.
"Very little, madam," he said.
"But you are an Italian, and all Italians are musical."
He uttered a faint disclaimer, but she insisted.
"Do me a favor—a great favor," she said, persuasively, "and sing some sweet Italian air, such as you must know."
"No, I don't sing Italian airs," he said.
"What then?"
"I can sing 'Sweet Marie.'"
"I am sure we shall all be glad to hear it. I sometimes sing a little myself—just a tiny bit."
"I shall like much to hear you, signora."
"I shall feel very bashful about singing to an Italian gentleman. You will laugh at me."
"No, no, I would not be so rude."
"Then perhaps I may. Our friends always insist upon hearing me."
So at an early period in the evening she sang one of her routine songs.
I watched the Count's face while she was singing. I was amused. At first his expression was one of surprise. Then of pain, and it seemed to me of annoyance. When Mrs. Wyman had completed the song she turned to him a look of complacent inquiry. She was looking for a compliment.
"Didn't I do horribly?" she asked.
"Oh, no, no," answered the Count, vaguely.
"It must have seemed very bad to you."
"No, no—"
"Do you think it was passable?"
"Oh, signora, I never heard anything like it."
"Oh, you naughty flatterer," she said, smiling with delight. "I am sure you don't mean it."
"Indeed I do."
I was sitting next the Disagreeable Woman.
"The Count has more brains than I thought," she said. "I quite agree with him."
"That you never heard anything like it?" I queried, smiling.
"Yes."
"Miss Ruth," I said to the young woman from Macy's, "do you never sing?"
"I used to sing a little in my country home," she admitted.
"What, for instance?"
"I can sing 'Annie Laurie'."
"Nothing could be better. It is a general favorite. Won't you sing it to-night?"
"But I cannot sing without an accompaniment," she said, shyly.
"I am not much of a musician, but I can play that."
With a little more persuasion I induced her to sing. She had a pleasant voice, and while I cannot claim for her anything out of the common on the score of musical talent, she rendered the song fairly well. All seemed to enjoy it, except Mrs. Wyman, who said, in a sneering tone:
"That song is old as the hills."
"It may be so," I retorted, "but the best songs are old."
"It was very good," said the Count, who really seemed pleased.
This seemed to annoy the widow.
"You are very good-natured, Count, to compliment such a rustic performance," she said.
"But, signora, I mean it."
"Well, let it pass! She did her best, poor thing!"
"She is a nice girl."
"Oh, Count, she is only a young woman from Macy's. She was born in the country, and raised among cabbages and turnips."
He seemed puzzled, but evidently regarded Ruth with favor.
Meanwhile, Prof. Poppendorf had listened attentively to the song of the maiden on whom he had fixed his choice.
"Mees Ruth, you sing beautiful!" he said.
Ruth Canby smiled.
"You are very kind, Prof. Poppendorf," she said, gratefully.
"I like your singing much better than Mrs. Wyman's."
"No. You mustn't say that. She sings airs from the opera."
"I like better your leetle song."
By this time Mrs. Wyman had succeeded in extracting a promise from the Count to sing.
"Dr. Fenwick," she said, "can't you play the accompaniment for the Count?"
"What is the song?"
"'Sweet Marie'."
"I will do my best. I am not professional."
So I played and the Count sang. He had a pleasant, sympathetic voice, and we were pleased with his singing.
"Oh, how charming, Count!" said Mrs. Wyman; "I shall never dare to sing before you again."
"Why not, signora."
"Because you are such a musical artist."
"Oh, no, no, signora!" he said, deprecatingly.
He was persuaded to sing again, and again he pleased his small audience.
"Miss Blagden, won't you favor us with a song?" asked Mrs. Wyman, in a tone of mockery.
"Thank you," said the Disagreeable Woman, dryly. "There is so much musical talent here, that I won't undertake to compete with those who possess it."
"Prof. Poppendorf, don't you ever sing?" asked the widow, audaciously.
"I used to sing when I was young," answered the Professor, unexpectedly.
"Then do favor us!"
He seated himself at the piano, and sang a German drinking song, such as in days gone by he had sung with Bismarck and his old comrades at the university.
There was a rough vigor in his performance that was not unpleasant. No one was more surprised than Mrs. Wyman at the outcome of what she had meant as a joke.
"Really, Professor," said the Disagreeable Woman, "you are more accomplished than I supposed. I like your song better than I did your lecture."
Prof. Poppendorf removed his glasses, and we saw in his eyes a suspicious moisture.
"Ah," he said, not appearing to hear the compliment, if it was a compliment, "it brings back the old days. I have not sing that song since I was at the university with Bismarck. There were twenty of us, young students, who sang it together, and now they are almost all gone."
This ended the musical performances of the evening. After this, there was conversation, and later Mrs. Gray provided ice-cream and cake. It was Horton's ice-cream, and the plates were small, but we enjoyed it.
Before we parted, the Professor found himself sitting next to Ruth Canby.
"Do you ever go to the theatre, fraulein?" he asked.
"Not often, Professor. I cannot go alone, and there is no one to take me."
"I will take you, Mees Ruth."
The young woman from Macy's looked amazed. She had not dreamed of such an invitation from him. Yet she was very fond of the stage, and she saw no reason why she should not accept.
"You are very kind, Professor," she said. "I did not think you cared for the theatre."
"I would like to go—with you," he said, gallantly.
"Then I will go."
"It will be like going with my grandfather," she thought.
CHAPTER X.
A RUSTIC ADMIRER
Sunday was always a lonely day to me. In the country village, where I knew everybody, I always looked forward to it as the pleasantest day of the week. Here in the crowded city, I felt isolated from human sympathy. I accustomed myself to attending church in the forenoon. In the afternoon I took a walk or an excursion.
At the boarding-house even it was dull and less social than usual. Such of the boarders as had friends near the city were able to absent themselves after breakfast. Among the faces that I missed was that of the Disagreeable Woman. Sometimes she appeared at breakfast; but never at dinner or tea. Though she never indulged in conversation to any extent, I think we all missed her.
One Sunday afternoon, soon after the gathering described in the last chapter, I walked up Fifth Avenue to Central Park. It was a pleasant day and many were out. Through the magnificent avenue I walked in a leisurely way, and wondered idly how it would seem to own a residence in this aristocratic street. I could not repress a feeling of envy when I thought of the favored class who dwelt in the long line of palaces that line the avenue. Their lives seemed far removed from that of a struggling physician, who was in daily doubt how long he could maintain his modest style of living in the crowded metropolis.
Arrived at Fifty-ninth street I sauntered toward the menagerie. This is the favorite resort of children, and of young persons from the country. Perhaps I, myself, might be classed among the latter. I did not care so much, however, to observe the animals as the visitors. I had a hope that I might see some one whom I knew.
At first I could see no familiar face. But presently I started, as my glance fell on the short and somewhat plump figure of the young woman from Macy's.
She was not alone. With her walked a tall, sun-burned young man, who was evidently from the country. She leaned confidingly upon his arm, and her face was radiant. He was evidently an old friend, perhaps a lover. He, too, looked contented and happy. Were they lovers? It looked like it. If so, the matrimonial plans of Prof. Poppendorf were doomed to disappointment. Delicacy dictated my silent withdrawal, but I confess that my curiosity was aroused, and I resolved to gratify it.
Accordingly I pressed forward and overtook the young woman from Macy's and her escort. She looked up casually, and a little flush overspread her face when she recognized me.
"Dr. Fenwick!" she said, impulsively.
I turned and lifted my hat.
"I am glad to meet you, Miss Canby!" I said.
At the same time I looked inquiringly at her escort.
"Stephen," she said, "this is Dr. Fenwick from our boarding-house."
"Proud to know you, sir," said the young man, offering his hand.
I shook it heartily.
"You have not mentioned your friend's name, Miss Canby," I said.
"Excuse me! I am very neglectful. This is Stephen Higgins from our town. I used to go to school with him."
"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Higgins."
"Same to you, sir."
"I suppose you are on a visit to the city, Mr. Higgins."
"Yes, sir. I came here to spend Sunday, and see Ruth."
"I presume you have been in the city before?"
"Not for five years. It's a pretty smart place. I'm so turned round that I hardly know which way to turn."
"You will have a good guide in Miss Canby."
"In Ruth, yes."
"I wish I could go round with him all the time he is here, Dr. Fenwick, but to-morrow I shall have to go back to my work at Macy's."
She gave a little sigh as she spoke.
"Do you intend to stay long, Mr. Higgins?"
"Only a day or two. It's pretty expensive stayin' in York."
"I want him to stay over till Tuesday, Dr. Fenwick. He can't see much if he goes home to-morrow."
"If you could be with me, Ruth—"
"But I can't, so it's no use talking about it."
"Wouldn't Mr. Macy give you a day off?"
"If I could find him perhaps he would," she said, laughing.
"Why can't you find him? Isn't he at the store every day?"
"Mr. Macy is dead, Stephen."
"Then how can he keep store?" asked Stephen, bewildered.
"Somebody else runs it in his name?"
"Don't let me interfere with your plans," I said, feeling that perhaps I might be in the way.
They both urged me to stay, and so I did.
By this time all the attractions of the menagerie had been seen, and I proposed to walk to the lake.
"How would you like to live in the city, Mr. Higgins?" I asked.
"First rate, if I could find anything to do."
"What is your business at home?"
"I work on father's farm. Next year, as father's gettin' feeble, I may take it on shares."
"That will be better, perhaps, than seeking a situation in the city."
"I should like to be here on account of Ruth," he said, wistfully.
She smiled and shook her head.
"There's nothing for me to do in the country," she said.
"I might find something for you to do," he said, eagerly.
Then I saw how it was, and felt inclined to help him.
"Do you like Macy's so well, then?" I asked.
"I don't know," she answered, thoughtfully, "I like to feel that I am earning my living."
"You wouldn't need," commenced Stephen, but she checked him by a look.
"You might not like to part with the Professor," said I, mischievously.
Stephen took instant alarm.
"What Professor?" he asked.
"Professor Poppendorf. He is a German, a very learned man."
"And what have you got to do with the Professor, Ruth?" he asked, jealously.
"Oh, you foolish boy!" she said. "You ought to see him."
"I don't want to see him."
"He is an old gentleman, most seventy, and wears green glasses."
Stephen looked relieved.
"By the way, did you have a pleasant evening with the Professor at the theatre the other evening, Miss Canby?"
It was very reprehensible of me, I know, but I felt a little mischievous.
"Did you go to the theatre with him, Ruth?" asked Stephen, reproachfully.
"Yes, I am so fond of the theatre, you know, I could not resist the temptation."
"What did you see?"
"I went to see Crane in the Senator. Where do you think we sat?" and she laughed.
"I don't know."
"In the upper gallery. The idea of asking a lady to sit in the top of the house!"
"The Professor is a German, and all Germans are frugal. I presume he thought you would be perfectly satisfied. Did the Professor appear to enjoy the play?"
"Very much. He did not always understand it, and asked me to explain it to him. Now and then he burst into such a loud laugh that I felt quite ashamed. Then I was glad that we were in the top gallery."
"When the play was over did he invite you to take an ice-cream at Delmonico's or Maillard's?"
"No, but he invited me into a saloon to take a glass of lager."
Here she laughed again.
"Evidently the Professor is not a ladies' man. Did you accept the beer?"
"As if I would!"
"Poor man! you deprived him of a pleasure."
"No, I did not. He left me on the sidewalk while he went in and took his beer."
"I hope you won't go to the theatre with him again," said Stephen, in a tone of dissatisfaction.
"You can rest quite easy, Stephen, I won't."
"What made him ask you to go?"
"You will have to ask him, Stephen. If you will come round to supper this evening, I will introduce you to him. There will be plenty of room, as some of our boarders are always away on Sunday."
Stephen felt a little bashful at first, but finally yielded to persuasion and took his place at the table in the seat of the Disagreeable Woman.
After seeing the Professor he got over his jealousy. The old German scholar hardly suggested a young Lothario, and his appearance was not calculated to excite jealousy. Prof. Poppendorf removed his goggles the better to observe Ruth's friend, but did not appear to be disturbed. That Ruth should prefer this young rustic to a man of his position and attainments, would have seemed to him quite out of the range of probability.
CHAPTER XI.
A POOR PATIENT
I was accustomed to remain in my office till about four o'clock in the afternoon waiting for possible patients. It was a long and weary wait, and oftentimes not a caller rewarded me. I suppose it is the usual fortune of young medical practitioners who are comparatively unknown. When four o'clock came I went out for a walk. Generally my steps tended to Sixth Avenue where there was some life and bustle.
I was compelled to practise the most rigid economy, but I could not deny myself the luxury of an evening paper. I would buy either the Sun or World, each of which cost but a penny. One little newsboy came to know me, and generally lay in wait for me as I emerged from a side street. He was a bright, attractive little boy of ten, whose name I found to be Frank Mills. His clothing was well-worn but clean, and his whole appearance was neat, so that I judged he had a good mother.
Usually Frank's manner was cheerful, but on the day succeeding my visit to the Park I found he looked sober and his eyes looked red as if he had been crying.
"What is the matter, Frank?" I asked.
"My sister is sick," he said, sadly.
"Is it an older sister?"
"Yes; she works at O'Neil's dry goods store. She has been sick two days."
"What is the matter?"
"Mother thinks it is a fever."
"Have you called a doctor?"
"N—no," answered Frank.