The Doctor Takes a Wife (19 page)

“Yes,” he agreed, “I
’
m afraid she would. But then perhaps that would have been the better thing—when you consider the sort of life those people live.”

“Why, Philip Scoles!” she protested. “Is that you talking? Just because it isn
’
t our sort of life! But even you acknowledge the beauty of these mountains, and living in them must have its compensations
...
Anyway, Marsy had a right to her life!” She spoke tensely, her small hands clasped together.

Phil let his hand fall briefly upon them, and his laughter was warm. “Of course, she had that right, darling. And you don
’
t have to argue the virtues of this trip to me. I
’
ve enjoyed every minute of it. In my book, two are always better than one.”

Page had gone so far toward relaxed warmth that she could manage a saucy sniff. “I was just ready to say a pretty thank-you-sir for the air of fine, friendly companionship which you
’
ve maintained on this trip, and—”

“I
’
ve been busy,” he drawled, but his main attention had shifted to the road again; it was about to go steeply down to a river bridge. He stopped the car as far over on the right shoulder as he dared, and cut the switch.

“I
’
m going to walk down there and look at things,” he told Page. “Just sit tight
...”

He was gone for fifteen minutes; she watched him as far as he was visible, and welcomed his crunching step when he returned. His smile was reassuring.

“Nothing wrong?”

“I
’
ve been noting a great lack of traffic,” he answered as he got into the seat. “I
’
m afraid we
’
re marooned for a time. Where
’
s that map?”

He studied it intently, his finger pointing to the two rivers, and the present location of their car. “That bridge down there is under six inches of water,” he told Page calmly, “and the river is getting muddier all the time. I
’
d hate to go through and find ourselves caught here.” His finger touched the line of the second stream. “If you don
’
t mind, I
’
d say we should stay up here till things look a little better
...
Hey, what
’
s wrong?” Terror blanched her face.

“We can
’
t stay here!” she said tightly.

“We
’
re safe enough, Page. The river
’
s down there. We
’
re sheltered; I still have some candy bars in that box I bought
.
”

“You mean, we may be here all night?”

He had leaned over to switch on the radio. “I
’
m hunting a weather report,” he explained. “I
’
d rather stay here all night where I know I
’
m safe than risk trouble in the darkness. Ha!” He pointed his finger down hilt “See!” he shouted. “I knew it was coming!”

As they watched, the river seemed to boil up and engulf the bridge, foam-flecked waves tossed branches on their crests.

“Flash-flood,” Phil explained to the frightened girl
.
“A car caught in that would go downstream in a hurry. I figure the other river has done the same thing; so here we are—”

Her breath came in hiccups of terror, and he put his hand on her shoulder. “Don
’
t do that, Page,” he said sternly. “You
’
re all right. We
’
re in no danger
...”

“How do you know?”

“Because I learned about flash-floods out in Idaho. If you see a stream getting muddy in a hurry, you climb a tree, or preferably a hill. We
’
re
on
a hil
l.
”

“:
But not in Idaho
...”

“
No, but I
’
m banking on mountain streams having the same moods and habits. If I
’
m right, this will be only a matter of waiting. By morning, I hope we can go on.”

“Morning?” she whispered.

“Morning! I
’
m not going to take any undue risks, Page. We
’
ll sit right here and t
hink
how lucky we are that I noticed the mud a half-hour back.”

“Well, I guess so.”

The radio helped amuse them. Now and then Phil turned on the heater to take the chill from the car. When darkness fell, he turned on the parking lights and prayed silently that his battery was in good shape. He got the candy bars, and some apples. Page had quieted down under the influence of his calm manner, and his talk.

He talked mostly of Idaho, of the mountains, skiing
—
and even of Marynelle. He told of the Little Theatre group in Berilo; he talked about me, and the Clinic—and of Marynelle again, her slick perfection, her passion for correctness.

Page sat in the
corner
of the seat, leaning against the door, and watched him in the dim light. “Did you love her?” she asked curiously.

“I was within a week of marrying her.”

“I
’
ve sometimes wondered
—
Does an engagement always mean love?”

He was glad that she would enter into a discussion, of any sort.

“I
’
ve noticed in certain marriages,” she continued, with her customary absorption in the subject at hand, “that only occasionally are you sure the union is because of a big and beautiful passion. The McNaires have that sort of love, I
’
m pretty sure—but others—oh, it seems a matter of chance, or expediency. The man lived near the girl, and paired off with her—or two people did the same kind of work, or liked the same sports—you know?”

Phil looked at her oddly. “It
’
s funny, your saying that, Page. Because, just before she was killed, I said something of the kind to Marynelle. We
’
d quarreled—about my kissing another girl—”

“I don
’
t blame her! A week before you were married.”

“Huh?” Then he laughed. “But it was Min Brady. Nobody else thought anything of it. She was Whit
’
s girl. I
’
d kissed her when she came into the Inn the night before
—
but Marynelle took that to hang her peeve on. So—we quarreled. And I got to wondering just how it had happened that I was marrying
her.
It could just as easily have been any of the other dames in our crowd.”

“This Min Brady, perhaps?”

“Ye-es. And my saying that to Marynelle made her mad; she took off down the mountainside in a fury—and was killed. Naturally, I blamed myself.”

“Well, if it hadn
’
t been that, something else would have occurred. In your married life, you would have found yourself making her angry.”

“You don
’
t understand. I blamed myself for getting engaged to Marynelle without that blinding passion you mentioned.”

“Then you didn
’
t love her that way?”

“Not enough, I
’
m afraid.”

“Did she want blinding passion?”

“Why—”

“Some women don
’
t you know.”

“Are you the girl I said didn
’
t know enough about people?”

“I know them,” said Page soberly. “I don
’
t like—-all of them. I don
’
t think I would have liked your Marynelle.”

“She
’
d have admired you.”

“Yes? But if she deliberately schemed to marry you, Phil
...
You haven
’
t said so, but I figure that she did
—
why, you were in no way to blame that she got killed after a quarrel with you. She ran all kinds of risks. Death on the ski slope was only one of
‘
em.” Her relaxed, colloquial speech surprised him far less than the vigor and insight of her protest.

He lit a cigarette, and sat back, thinking of what she had said. Page pulled the
lap robe
from the cord, and put it over their knees, cuddling into the seat so that her cheek lay upon the cushioned back. After a little, her even breathing told him that she slept, and Phil sat very still, watching her. What a girl she was! As enigmatic as any women he
’
d ever known—beautiful and—and mysterious.

He shifted his own position away from the wheel, and as he had hoped, her head soon rested against his shoulder. He dropped his cheek to her hair, and sat easy
—
dozing a little, now and then, himself. The rain stopped
...
water gurgled more softly in the roadside ditches. A hound dog came and sniffed at their tires, and went away.

It was hours later—after midnight—when Page stirred and sighed, dozed again, a little, then sat up and looked at Phi
l.
He was watching her, his eyes shining.

“Men,” she said gravely, “are
not
all alike, are they?" He laughed, and put his arm around her shoulder.

“Yes, I
’
m afraid they are, Page, darling.”

“Then
—
Yes, women are, too,” she decided. “I am still the girl I used to be—just the same.”

His arm tightened and drew her close. “Thank God
!
” he whispered as his lips met hers. He kissed her hard and hungrily, his face into her soft and fragrant hair. Then, in a slow and savoring way, he kissed the
corner
of her eye, and the hollow of her soft cheek, then her mouth again
...

And Page let him, floating in ecstasy. She held him as he held her, looked up at him and smiled, soaked through with happiness.

CHAPTER
11

With
morning
’
s first gray in the east, Phil explored the road down to the bridge, and decided that they could drive on. The air was much colder, and traces of snow dusted the ground. The whiteness increased as they went northward. They stopped in the first town of any size for breakfast and tidying; Phil shaved.

“I wonder if his first hot coffee and bacon tasted as good to Noah,” mused Page.

“I
’
d have to get a look at Mrs. Noah before I could tell you,” Phil answered.

Page
’
s cheeks bloomed rosy, and her eyes were shy, but she seemed ready enough to accept last night
’
s development, and to face the future bravely—with Phil. They reached the city before nine. Across the park the sand
-
toned building of the Group rose magnificently beyond the rust-leaved trees and the blue half-circle of the snow
-
bordered lake.

“I think I
’
ll go straight to the lab,” Page decided. “I must care for my samples soon.”

Phil took her there, and carried the cases into the building. Her suitcase could stay in the car trunk; he
’
d send it up to her room and they
’
d meet for dinner together at the hotel.

Their eyes clung warmly for a second, and Phil went out to the car, Page watching him, noting the crisp brightness of his hair, the strength of his neck, his broad shoulders and flat hips—a big man, a kind man, and trustworthy—

Phil worked that day at the pre-natal clinic, and he answered a call to the urology ward; an old man he
’
d treated for arthritis was going home, able to walk, his foot ulcers healed. He wanted to demonstrate this with Phil present. “I thought the bosses ought to know what a good doctor you are,” he said spunkily.

The Resident smiled, and the Staff nodded solemn agreement. “You did just right,” he assured the patient “Even Dr. Scoles needs to be shown how good he is.”

Phil shifted unhappily from one foot to the other and swung his stethoscope across his white jacket front.

“Where you been lately?” the patient persisted. “Ain
’
t seen you around
...”

“My specialty is obstetrics. I didn
’
t think I could do much for you there.”

He often thought that without a supply of good, corny jokes doctors could not go far. The old man went off, cackling and chuckling. Phil talked for a minute to the Staff, and went back to his clinic. He was, he decided, tired. What he needed was a hot bath and clean clothes. A nap, if possible. He
’
d knock off as soon as he could.

But it was four o
’
clock when he was finally free to drive to the hotel. He left the car and the bags with the attendant of the basement garage, and went to the lobby to pick up any mail. And, seated in a leather chair, facing the elevators, he found Min Brady.

“Why, Min
...”

She looked at him hollow-eyed, then untangled her legs and stood up. She looked bad—sick, he thought. “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded tensely. “I
’
ve been waiting around in this foul lobby for three days!” She wore no hat, and her short dark hair was disheveled, her make-up smeary.

“Well
—
I went on a little trip. I
’
m sorry—”

“I know. Skip it. But I
’
ve got to talk to you, Red. I
’
ve got to!”

He glanced around the lobby; a dozen pairs of interested eyes were upon them. “Take it easy,” he said gently.

“I
’
ll
get my mail and well go up to my room. Get in the elevator and wait for me.”

When he returned, she was leaning against the enameled wall of the cage, looking utterly exhausted. He said nothing until he had unlocked the door of his room. “Go in,” he said; his hand guided her to the armchair, but before she reached it, her slender shoulders were convulsed with sobs, and tears poured down her cheeks in a flood.

“Hey!” said Phil in alarm. “What
’
s wrong with you, Min?” Then a thought struck him. “Has something happened to Whit?” he asked sharply.

She gazed at him between her black, wedged lashes. “Oh, Red
...
” she moaned.

Naturally, the only thing for him to do was to gather her against his manly bosom, pat her shoulder and murmur consolingly against her hair
...

And, just as naturally, Fate, the master stage manager, had Page
Arning
walk into the room at that precise minute, upon that precise scene.

She
’
d reached the hotel before Phil; the return of her bag showed that he was “home.” She
’
d run down the stairs on impulse, just for a minute
...
“Oh!” she said sharply, and turned immediately upon her pump
’
s slender brown heel to go quickly away from that place.

Phil just stood there, the poor guy.

It was Min Who saw what had happened; it was Min who gave a hoarse shout. “Wait!” she said, and plunged after the departing girl.

She had to use some strength to bring Page back into the room. This time she closed the door firmly. “Got to keep the rest of the dames out of here,” she said, in her usual Min-manner.

Phil was still standing there, looking unhappy, and shuffling his pieces of mail in his hands. A letter forwarded from Berilo, a laundry bill, and two advertisements
...

“We
’
d better get this little mess straightened out before it gets any more complicated,” Min was saying briskly.

Page tried to withdraw her arm. “I can
’
t see that it needs any straightening out,” she said stiffly. “It all seems perfectly plain to me.”

“Well, that
’
s where you
’
re all wrong, sister,” Min told her.

Some people describe Min
’
s manner as brassy, others say it
’
s cute. I always thought it reflected the frank, open mind of an entirely honest, and brave, girl.

“As an old newspaper woman, Sweetie,” she continued to Page, who stood white and sick, not so much as glancing at Phil, “I
’
d advise you to get your facts straight before filing your story. Circumstantial evidence is not to be depended upon.”

“No?” said Page coldly. Her arm was free now, but she did not turn again to the door.

“No!” said Min, running her hand up through
h
er brown hair. “Of course, I know how it looked through the keyhole—”

Red flamed into Page
’
s cheeks, and Phil came to enough to growl a protest.

“I take the keyhole back,” said Min quickly. “She walked in—as she probably had every right to do. And she found me weeping on her young man
’
s shoulder. I suppose you are her young man, Red?”

Phil sighed and came toward the two girls. “Page,” he said, a little too loudly, “this is the old friend of whom I
’
ve spoken often—Min Brady. Min, may I present Dr. Page
Arning
?”

Min blinked, and took a second look at the slight, blonde girl in pale green. “Doctor?” she squeaked.

“Not medicine,” said Phil sternly. “Biology.”

“Oh,” said Min, “I see.”

Phil laughed—and it was a good thing to do. It relaxed everyone. “You don
’
t see a damn thing,” he assured Min. “Take some of your own advice, will you? Verify what you think are facts before using them. Page had every right to walk into my room when the door stood half open, but I assure you it
’
s the first time she has so honored me. And as for you—you had every right to weep on my shoulder, whatever trouble or grief occasioned your tears. Now you two girls
...”

“Wait, Phil,” said Page, with dignity. “I still think I
’
d better go back to my room, and let you and Miss Brady continue whatever it was I interrupted. If she is in trouble, and wants to tell you about it
—
You can phone me when you
’
re free.”

“Oh, now wait, Page
...”
Phil protested.

“Look, Honey
...
” attempted Min.

Page smiled at them both. “This is an entirely different exit,” she explained. “I
’
m neither shocked, nor angry. If I ever had the right to be either. But I am leaving.” And she did leave, her golden head up, her slim back straight, her step unhurried.

With one glance at Min, Phil strode after Page, and caught up with her in the hall. He seized her arm. “Page
...”

She stopped and looked up at him. “It
’
s all right
...”

“She
’
s in trouble. She
’
s been waiting for me in the lobby. For three days, she said. She
’
s an old friend, and has a right to come to me if I can help her.”

“Of course. Anyone can see that she is in trouble. Go back to her, Phil. As I told you, I
’
ll wait upstairs.”

She was pale, and her eyes dark. Phil regarded her with concern. “You don
’
t—misunderstand?”

“No-o-o. But the thing is—” She essayed a tremulous smile. “You brought me back into life rather abruptly, remember? And I
’
m learning about people in such big chunks these days—that—some of them are a little hard to digest.”

He laughed, and patted her arm; a maid at work down the hall prevented a kiss. “You go take a Turn and relax,” he advised. “I
’
ll see you soon.”

He went slowly back to Min, conscious that he was resentful at her coming to him here in the hotel, and at this particular time! Nothing was really settled with Page
—
just the groundwork laid. Besides, he was dead tired. His clothes were itchily crumpled; he slumped on the couch and listened with only half an ear to what Min was telling, much more absorbed in his own discomfort and the unfortunate aspect of this development. Unless her excuse was pretty damned valid
...

He put both feet to the floor and sat up, staring at Min. She sat in the gray chair, her head back against the cushions, her tense fingers worrying the ends of the arms, and talked of—

Why, it was as if she spoke of another girl, told
her
story of week-end river cruises, gay parties, of chances taken, and disaster
...

Not Min! A clean, fine, straight-playing woman if such creatures existed in this world!

Min would never do a thing like throwing her cap over the windmill for some guy—a test pilot out at McDonald
’
s! She
’
d known one; she had introduced him to Phil one time—a slender, dark guy with a rooster-comb crew cut. An out-of-this-world sort of chap—but it was too bad, just the same, that he
’
d been killed
...

It must have happened while Phil was down in the Ozarks; he
’
d not seen a newspaper, nor listened to any newscast too attentively. Now, he said something of the sort to Min, adding that it was certainly tough—especially if she loved the flier. He thought she must have, he couldn
’
t figure why else she
’
d come to him in such distress.

“I wasn
’
t in
love
with him,” Min corrected him bleakly.

“But—”

“He was fun,” she said in a woodenly analytical tone. She had taken off her big woolly coat, and her bright jersey blouse and skirt looked rumpled without actually showing many wrinkles. Bunchy, more. The scarf at her throat was wilted—there was not the slick, trig appearance of Min
’
s clothes as she usually wore them. “He had glamor—” Her mouth twisted wryly. “All the things, Red, I thought could substitute for love
...
”

He waited, and now gave her his full attention. She had much more to tell, he was sure. She threw him a direct look, and laughed a little. “I know I
’
m changed!” she agreed with his unspoken comment. “But why not? I was getting exactly nowhere being the girl I was. I thought if I
’
d be different—the results would be.” She sat silent for a long minute, staring unseeingly before her. “And they are!” she said bitterly. “Oh, indeed they are!”

“Min
...
” he said gruffly.

“It wasn
’
t as hard to change as you might think, Red,” she went on woodenly. He looked at her sharply. Could she be drunk—or have taken some drug? No, hers was the numbness of despair; she spoke from the depths to the only familiar person near her ... “I began with my clothes. I remember the way you looked at me that night last spring when you walked into the bar downtown.
‘
Laws a massy on me,
’
your eyes said,
‘
this can be none of Min!
’
But it was Min. Way last spring, Red, it still was Min. But time went by—and now there
’
s no more Min. No more.”

He got up and made them each a drink; she sat turning her glass in her fingers, not tasting its contents. He ate a handful of crackers and stood watching her. “Is there any more to tell?” he prompted her.

She looked up, almost calmly. “Only that I
’
m three months pregnant
.
”

“What!”

“You know—I
’
m
that way,
Red.
With child.
In an
interesting condition.
I have
expectations.
I—” Her voice was rising hysterically, and that tone made its claim upon the doctor he was. He came to her, and lifted her glass to her lips.
‘
Take a drink,” he bade her. “Either you
’
re lying, or—”

She drank a little of the highball, then pushed the glass away. “I
’
m not lying,” she said quietly.

“But I can
’
t believe it
!
”

“It
’
s true.”

“I can
’
t believe it of you, Min.”

“Easiest thing in the world
...”
she attempted, but she began to cry; Phil patted her hair, and gave her his handkerchief, and stood by while she dabbed at her eyes.

“I never used to be teary, either,” she told him..

No, she hadn
’
t been. He tried to think of the girl she had been back in the clear air of Berilo, as clean-cut as their mountains, as honest as the crisp wind. He himself felt like weeping at the change which this year had brought. That old Min would never have—
”

“Min,” he said miserably, “if—when I first came here to St Louis—if I had kept in touch with you, gone around with
you...”

“What good is that, Red? You didn
’
t.”

“I could have, though. It was just—well, I was running away from Berilo, too. Marynelle
’
s death, and all. In my way I was hunting the same change you were. But if this is my fault
...”

“Oh, Red, for heaven
’
s sake! Remember, I could have fastened myself to you.”

That was true enough; he
’
d always liked Min, but because of Whit, he
’
d avoided her, afraid of becoming too fond of her.

Just the same, if he
’
d been more interested in Min, this mess probably would not have developed, and to that extent he was to blame. So—he must help her
—
He said it aloud. “Don
’
t worry, Honey. I
’
ll help you through this thing.”

“How?”

“I don
’
t know. I
’
m too stunned to think—and too tired.” He told her of the long drive home from the Ozarks, then urged her to freshen herself in his bathroom; he
’
d take her home. By tomorrow he
’
d have thought of something. That evening his brain was too fagged
...

Relaxed, her confidence beginning to return, Min obeyed all his instructions, seeming almost cheerful when Phil took her down to his car. He drove her to the apartment where she lived with another newspaper woman who was, fortunately, out at the minute. This building was clear downtown, had been a store with flats above it, but was now “restored” to a dozen small, compact apartments. The street door was painted a vivid blue; the entry walls were painted with a design of wrought iron and impossible flowers to indicate a New Orleans courtyard
...