Arrowsmith, Sinclair Lewis [children's ebooks free online .TXT] 📗

could at times take the lead away from Bert, whom he considered useful but slightly indiscreet, and unable to grasp the “full value of a dollar.” (Mr. Tozer valued it at one dollar and ninety, but the progressive Bert at scarce more than one-fifty.) Mr. Tozer mildly gave orders:

They were to stop “scrapping.” They had no proof that Martin was necessarily a bad match for Ory. They would see. Martin would return to medical school at once, and be a good boy and get through as quickly as he could and begin to earn money. Ory would remain at home and behave herself⁠—and she certainly would never act like a Bad Woman again, and smoke cigarettes. Meantime Martin and she would have no, uh, relations. (Mrs. Tozer looked embarrassed, and the hungrily attentive Ada Quist tried to blush.) They could write to each other once a week, but that was all. They would in no way, uh, act as though they were married till he gave permission.

“Well?” he demanded.

Doubtless Martin should have defied them and with his bride in his arms have gone forth into the night. But it seemed only a moment to graduation, to beginning his practice. He had Leora now, forever. For her, he must be sensible. He would return to work, and be Practical. Gottlieb’s ideals of science? Laboratories? Research? Rot!

“All right,” he said.

It did not occur to him that their abstention from love began tonight; it did not come to him till, holding out his hands to Leora, smiling with virtue at having determined to be prudent, he heard Mr. Tozer cackling, “Ory, you go on up to bed now⁠—in your own room!”

That was his bridal night; tossing in his bed, ten yards from her.

Once he heard a door open, and thrilled to her coming. He waited, taut. She did not come. He peeped out, determined to find her room. His deep feeling about his brother-in-law suddenly increased. Bert was parading the hall, on guard. Had Bert been more formidable, Martin might have killed him, but he could not face that buck-toothed and nickering righteousness. He lay and resolved to curse them all in the morning and go off with Leora, but with the coming of the three-o’clock depression he perceived that with him she would probably starve, that he was disgraced, that it was not at all certain he would not become a drunkard.

“Poor kid, I’m not going to spoil her life. God, I do love her! I’m going back, and the way I’m going to work⁠—Can I stand this?”

That was his bridal night and the barren dawn.

Three days later he was walking into the office of Dr. Silva, dean of the Winnemac Medical School.

X I

Dean Silva’s secretary looked up delightedly, she hearkened with anticipation. But Martin said meekly, “Please, could I see the dean?” and meekly he waited, in the row of oak chairs beneath the Dawson Hunziker pharmaceutical calendar.

When he had gone solemnly through the ground-glass door to the dean’s office, he found Dr. Silva glowering. Seated, the little man seemed large, so domed was his head, so full his rounding mustache.

“Well, sir!”

Martin pleaded, “I’d like to come back, if you’ll let me. Honest, I do apologize to you, and I’ll go to Dr. Gottlieb and apologize⁠—though honest, I can’t lay down on Clif Clawson⁠—”

Dr. Silva bounced up from his chair, bristling. Martin braced himself. Wasn’t he welcome? Had he no home, anywhere? He could not fight. He had no more courage. He was so tired after the drab journey, after restraining himself from flaring out at the Tozers. He was so tired! He looked wistfully at the dean.

The little man chuckled, “Never mind, boy. It’s all right! We’re glad you’re back. Bother the apologies! I just wanted you to do whatever’d buck you up. It’s good to have you back! I believed in you, and then I thought perhaps we’d lost you. Clumsy old man!”

Martin was sobbing, too weak for restraint, too lonely and too weak, and Dr. Silva soothed, “Let’s just go over everything and find out where the trouble was. What can I do? Understand, Martin, the thing I want most in life is to help give the world as many good physicians, great healers, as I can. What started your nervousness? Where have you been?”

When Martin came to Leora and his marriage, Silva purred, “I’m delighted! She sounds like a splendid girl. Well, we must try and get you into Zenith General for your internship, a year from now, and make you able to support her properly.”

Martin remembered how often, how astringently, Gottlieb had sneered at “dese merry vedding or jail bells.” He went away Silva’s disciple; he went away to study furiously; and the brilliant insanity of Max Gottlieb’s genius vanished from his faith.

II

Leora wrote that she had been dropped from the school of nursing for over-absence and for being married. She suspected that it was her father who had informed the hospital authorities. Then, it appeared, she had secretly sent for a shorthand book and, on pretense of helping Bert, she was using the typewriter in the bank, hoping that by next autumn she could join Martin and earn her own living as a stenographer.

Once he offered to give up medicine, to take what work he could find and send for her. She refused.

Though in his service to Leora and to the new god, Dean Silva, he had become austere, denying himself whisky, learning page on page of medicine with a frozen fury, he was always in a vacuum of desire for her, and always he ran the last block to his boardinghouse, looking for a letter from her. Suddenly he had a plan. He had tasted shame⁠—this one last shame would not matter. He would flee to her in Easter vacation; he would compel Tozer to support her while she studied stenography in Zenith; he would have her near him through the last year. He paid Clif the borrowed hundred, when