"STAR" TALES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10180, 15 June 1911, Page 4

"STAR" TALES.

_-—-—« THE HOME-CO?VUNG OF ;' KINSTON.

"/I v (By HENRY HOOD.)

''Exactly on'the scheduled i.iimite a Jfniited express from tlu- Vest pulled into the- Grand Central U-nmmvl. *ew York, one evening in early tall, ana thirty red-caps ran from the entrance gates to meet it. Close following these porters rolled haii » dozen baggage trucks, and racing therewith as many more for the incoming mail-sacks. A sharp, hissing sound flew irom end .o end of the solid Pullman train, the wheels ceased moving, and passengers poured from the cars. . When most of them had made their .way towards the station exits a tall. broad-shouldered man with white liair and moustache was lilted Ironva private car at the end oi the train and carried to a rolling-chair. A lew years previous he had been a human dynamo of resistless energy: weight two hundred odd; ruddy cheeks; keen blue ©yes, with a sparkle of merriment lurking in the background: vibrant voice. light of step, genial in manner---the picture of-vigour, health, success*, this evening, when slowly pushed towards the concourse in a rollmg-chair—sur-rounded by a young woman in the ninform of a hospital nurse, an older 'woman in deep black, a physician and his private secretary—this man was a human shadow, with hollow, grey cheeks, cavernous eyes, emaciated frame and long- scrawny lingers which trembled constantly. It was thus that Kinston. financier and railway magnate, was brought to Kew York, taken across town and down to "his Long Island country place. The newspapers next morning described this home-coming', and debated at length whether Kinston would lire or die. If Bill Smith or Sam Jones •had come home thus, little fuss would have b,een made. But Kinston was master!.of twenty thousand miles of railways. His voice directed mines and •manufacturing plants scattered all over the country. His vote weighed heavily at board-meetings cf a. score of direcOn his "Yes" or ".No'' llrang, for the time being, the liveli-hood-r-the actual bread and -butter—-of three hundred thousand men and wolinen and children. And upon him depended, to a large extent, the income of multitudes who bad invested their Savings in the great industrial organisations which he controlled. If Kinston should j-'live, securities representing [ownership of these enterprises would more and more valuable. If ließhbulcLdie, "Kins-ton shares" would 'drop like a rocket; for it was his creative mind, his dauntless courage, his injdomitable energy, wheh had knitted %he -widespreading network into a co--herent whole. And the country was convinced that none but he could hold \t together. As soon as he died, men 'said,''this intricate, delicately poised structure would commence to disintegrate—even as would his body when the breath of life ceased.

, No wonder a multitude throughout the land, waited eagerly lor reports as to his' condition. No wonder that ," Kinston shares" declined. There ,was' many a widow with her little all invested in those securities who would »ot have warni clothing .for herself and jfcer children that coming winter if he ;faued to recover. There-, was many a Aimorous man in Wall Street loaded up '•with'" Kinston shares ;; who saw ruin staring him in the face. And there j were'.some in that narrow, shadowy thoroughfare who realised, with throbibing temples, that if they only knew 'whether he would live or die they could play the market up or down, as the case might be, and themselves become " kings of finance " literally over night. 'And ceaseless were the efforts of these last-named to learn the truth as to Kinston 's real condition. Never did vultures from soaring heights gazo down' more hungrily upon the death

struggles of some liaples.s creature in the plain below. Early editions of the afternoon papers* the day following Kinston's return printed "startling headlines over leaded type, telling tliat attending physician's disagreed as to the necessity for an operation: that extra nurses had arrived; that "a complete hospital equipment had been installed in the financier's country home.'"'

An hour after the market opened the ticker chopped out a brief bulletin on its narrow ribbon of white paper, tclJiivf, between quotations of Penn. R.ll. and L'.B. Steel Pref., that "Bertram had been sent for ." Bertram, the greatest of those intrepid men, who—in accordance with the Revelation of Life expounded by the Prophets, 'Pasteur and Lister—first dared to practice modern internal surgery. An old man now was Dr Bertram; and so constant the demand upon hi 3 time and strength that he could respond to no calls, excepting when brother practitioners appealed to him as the authority final and absolute in cases of extremity.

Kinston's condition must be- desperate, indeed, if Bertram had been summoned.

While a special train was being rushed across Long Island that afternoon, carrying a single passenger, other men only less skilful, than he were doing their utmost to keep alive the emaciated creature who lay motionless on his bed in a groat, turreted castle, which was surrounded by a park of five thousand acres. A silence oppressive, almost smothering, held possession rf that magnificent pile of granite, with its seventy-four rooms and its score of corridors and galleries. In the sickroom was Kinston's family physician, with attendant nurses. In the library below two surgeons were consulting an eminent pathologist who. with microscope and other apparatus, had been testing drops of blood taken from the lobe of Kinston's ear. House, servants flitted to and fro on their duties with noiseless step. Close to the main entrance stood the butler, long in Kinston's employ, waiting with strained ear for the first sound of approaching wheels. And in a little room at the top of the tallest, tower, shut off from the rest of the world. Kinston's wifo knelt by a windon-, with streaming eyes, watching for a puff of dust at the park gateway, far ! distant, which would tell her that Ber- I tram was near. There she knelt, and ] there she watched, and there she prayed the Gcd of her fathers to give this man power to bring back her husband from the grip of death, -even as He bad given such power to the Healer of Nazareth two thousand years before. Just before two o'clock twenty reporters at the park gateway, who constituted Kinston's "death-watch," saw a runabout flash by and whirl up the main avenue toward the castle a. mile beyond. They recognised the grave, grey, silent man sitting beside the driver. It was late that evening when Doctor Bertram returned to his home in the city—an unpretentious little dwelling (rf red brick, facing a side street of the Washington Square district. There he had settled at the clo.se of the Civil War. There lie had brought his young wile, who there had died : and there was born his only child—now a woman approaching middle age. and totally blind. Little by little the residential respectability of that street had declined, the old families moving out one alter another, and others, much lower down in the social scale taking their places. Still Bertram lived there, and in his little consultation-room saw patient after patient from eight o'clock in the morning until noon. To each his charge for advice was the same amount, one dollar—no more, no less. His afternoons he gave up to the hospital and to lectures. His evenings he devoted to study, interruption of 'which, lie would not permit excepting in emergency.

Regarded as well-nigh infallible by his colleagues, literal'./ reverenced by the younger men who crowded his lectures and clinics, almost worshipped by thousands whom ho had saved, from death or deformity, Bertram was spoken of for three decadas as little less than a god. Never seen at dinners or other gatherings of purely social nature, limiting himsolf to a few visits each year to his beloved Century, and as seldom attending the opera, he worked and wrestled mightily to prolong life, to renew health, to rescue men and women and little children from agony. He had not toiled and striven for a lifetime in the hope of making money. From the beginning he had regarded his work as tdiat of a sacred ministry to suffering humanity. On one occasion his most intimate friend remonstrated with him. "Bertram," he exclaimed, "you're making a mistake! Here you are, almost sixty years old, and apparently reckless of the future. No matter how great he is, a surgeon's eye and hand do not remain young for ever!" At .which Bertram smiled quietly and said nothing. He was satisfied. Enough for present modest needs and a few thousands laid up for the blind daughter when he was gone—that was all Ikasked. But this evening, as he journeyed home after seeing Kinsten, he wondered whether the course he hadpursued for a lifetime had been the right one. Jt was raining gently when he turned into the side street and walked past a doren shabby buildings before he mounted his own steps. He ivas tired and' worried, but he spoke courteously to his office-nurse who opened the dooi.-

"Any calls?' 7 he, asked, pausing in Ihe vestibule. "Only one, sir," she replied. "A Mr Eton was here an hour ago and said he would come back later—on a matter of business, ho told me to say; not for professional advice."' Bertram strode toward his consulta-tion-room, and the young woman spoke again :

" Miss Mary has had your dinner kept warm, Doctor." "Thank you. Please tell her I am not hungry.' - Then lie closed the door alter him and sat down before his flat desk in the dimly-lighted little office, and gazed fixedly into space. Apparently he was looking at the old-fashioned wall-paper before him. In reality, he was looking Facts in the face; and as he did so the deep lines between his heavy eyebrows bt-caino deeper still, and bis firm jaw grew almost rigid with intensity oi expression. On his way hack from Kinston's country-place that evening, Bertram had seen the flash of a danger-signal—-for the second time in a tew months he had felt a slight numbness in his left foot and side. And for the first time the finger-tips of his right hand had been numb; only for a little while, but long enough for him to remember, with an inward shudder, that his father and his grandfather before him had died of paralysis. When he. first experienced that lack of sensation in foot and side he bad suspected- what was impending. And to-night be knew absolutely that sooner or later his delicate sense of touch would fail him; that at some- moment his slender, sensitive, powerful fingers would tremble ever so little—perhaps at a critical instant when bending over an unconscious patient lying on the table. . . . That afte:,iOon he had performed his last important operation. He would never dare to attempt another.

And here he was, with no one to turn to—and Mary heirless as n child. A lew years of life remained for him, possibly: or a lew months or weeks: but whatever the time, it was to be a time of uselessness.

" Sent, to the scr»j>-hoHp at- sixtylive." he murmured grimly. Then lie leaned back and closed his eyes and sighed, while like a flood swept over him remembrance of the one inexcusable folly of a, lifetime. A few months before, when suddenly warned, that oncoming paralysis would

out off his earning power. Dr Bertram had been almost panic-stricken; not for his own future, but for that of his helpless, blind'daughter. He know nothing of business; ho had no idea, in what direction to turn. Accustomed for forty years to keep the secrets of others, he kept this terrible secret of his own. Night after night his "study hours" were, given up to working over the problem. Pages and pages of an old blank hook lie filled with figures, trying to see how much he had, how much ho con Id collect of that which was owing him, and how long he- and Mary could live on his final resources. And night after night he paced his little consultation - room, fighting against the. wave of cold, black despair that was trying to overwhelm his weary brain, his tired old heart. *Tt was at this crisis that Bertram, through mere coincidence, first received circular after circular, letter after lettor, telling of fabulous sums to be made by investing in Western mining stocks. Like many another professional man unversed in business matters—to whom such crazy schemes appeal—he became fascinated' by the alluring prospectNight after night he thought of it, his°faith increasing because of eminent names In the board of directors. And in the end he drew the several thousands he had saved—and plunged. It was the old familiar story. Down went the stock, and in a desperate effort to save, his money Bertram raised more margin by mortgaging his home lor every dollar that could be obtained on it-

Just Timv 3 on returning from Kinston's nlaco. he had found a message from his broker that this also had been swallowed up and bis holdings closed out.

Suddenly he felt weak. and., arising from his chair, took from a closet two or three biscuits and a glass of malt. His hand trembled as he replaced the empty glass. "To the scrap-heap at sixty-five, he murmured again, "and not a dollar in tho world." Not even a roof over his head that was his own. . . . And upstairs he could hear Mary singing an old Scottish ballad that her mother sang in days gone ny. patiently waiting, as best she could, until his "study hours" were over. The rain, which had been falling since he returned to the city, increased In violence and beat viciously against the windows as if demanding admittance. He walked to the receptionroom and looked out into tho night. The narrow little street was flooded and diminutive rivers poured along the gutters. While he stood there an automobile swung around the corner and stopped before his door: a splendid car of the limo'isino type, that must have cost as much as his very home was worth —that is. be corrected himself, as much as the house was worth which was his own home before he mortgaged it.

Tho footman, sitting beside the driver, sprang to the pavement, hurried up the steps, rang the bell, and asked if Dr Bertram were in; then hastened back to the car, from which descended the owner. And he in turn entered the house and was shown into the consultation-room, where the great surgeon awaited him. "My name is Eton,'' said the visitor, " and T come to see you on a matter of business—a financial matter, not in any sense professional." Bertram .bowed slightly. " Be seated," he said, with a single sweeping glance, noting the other's appearance. A man of forty-five was Eton, rotund, face reddened by too high living, skin smooth—almost oily—brown hair and closely-trimmed moustache, sharp, keen eyes, and expensively dressed. Every line of his being, every inch of his clothing, spelled prosperity, luxury, even extravagance. For a moment he looked at the surgeon without speaking, while a genial, friendly smile lighted up his face. Then he said, in. tones of deep respect: " Dr Bertram, I have Icuown of you since my boyhood; not merely of your genius and professional achievements, but also of your life, which has been dedicated to humanity. I have read of some clergymen—missionaries, I mean —who literally sacrificed themselves and their all for others who had no claim upon them; hut you, sir, are the only one I ever knew who, without lessening his usefulness to the Brotherhood of Man, might have amassed a fortune, yet disdained it." Bertram looked at his visitor searchingly, hut without moving a muscle. And Eton continued, still speaking soberly: " I have come to you on two errands. T wanted meet you and say what I have said. Secondly, I wanted to tell you that in the course of business today I had the opportunity to purchase a mortgage you recently gave on your home Jiere. . . That mortgage, Dr Bertram, is in my vault. Neither interest nor principal will ever be asked for-while you or your daughter live; and this evening F have added a clause to that effect in my will, should she or you survive me." "The holder of the —the mortgage," said Bertram, '* will not have to request payment either of interest or principal." The visitor rose from his chair and reached for his hat. " I respect your feeling, sir," ho said gravely, "but I am jealous of my privilege. . . . Good-night, Dr Bertram."

" Good-night. Mr Eton. T thank you for your generosity —but business is business." At the door leading from the consul-tation-room Eton paused as if a new thought occurred to him. "Oh. by the way." he said casually, "will my old friend Kinston recover from this trouble of his?" " T oatmot say." " Of course., all of us who know Mr Kinston are much disturbed by the sensational news in the evening papers," he continued, easily. '* "We can't tell how much or how little to believe. It's very distressing." " No information regarding- patients is ever given out from this office, Mr Eton."

Hut under some circumstances

"Under no circumstances!" the surgeon interniptcdj with a sternness which would have abashed another man.

Bertram's visitor hesitated just a moment; then took from his pocket a large, heavy envelope and laid it on his knee.

'•Doctor." he said, "grave and heavy responsibilities hang by a thread on Kinston's condition. . . . Tn this envelope are fifty thousand dollars' worth of Government bonds. . . . Wj]] \^\ n . stem live?" Bertram regarded curiously the stout, richly-dressed man who sat there, his face going white, now and his eyes mere slits of hard cunning.

For a moment Eton's fingers twitched and he- took a second envelope from that deep inner pocket, saying hiiskilv:

" Twenty-five thousand more." Still the -jurgeon stood there without a word—and gripped his hands back of

him, lest they should suddenly reach out ar.d seize "that fat, puffy throat. Great drops of perspiration broke out of Eton's forehead as he slowly brought. to view a third envelope. ,; Quo---hundred -thousand—dollars," he whispered. "Dr Bertram., you need not utter a word, a sound. ... If Kinston is gouty to die, sit down in your ehair. . . . If he will recover, walk to the window. ... I will leave'in one minute and you will never see me nor hear from mo again. . . . You will find this fortune, lying on your table--and in the early morning mail will come back your mortgage, satisfied'" lie paused, tor tho surgeon quietly stretched forth his hand and pulled an old-fashioned bell-rope of red silk which hung beside the door. The fringe on the tassels was still quivering when the maid-of-all work responded to the call, and Bertram said, with \m habitual kind dignity : " Nora, show this—person out tho front door." Driving rain snapped angrily into the vestibule'as Eton stepped forth into the night; a moment later his limousine silently sped off toward the avenue —and once more alone tho surgeon sank down in the chair before his flat desk, gazing at the wallpaper. His face was grey now. and as he gazed and gazed the old-fashioned figures in the paper commenced to revolve and weave together in confused streams and circles.

During the early evening Kinston had come out of tho ether, miraculously relieved, it seemed to him, of tho agony he had suffered so poignantly that for hours before Bertram's arrival he had prayed unceasingly to die. Hour alter hour that stormy night ho reclined quiescent in the great bed -which, moro than a century previous, had stood -with stately magnificence in France, the resting-place of royalty itself. At eleven o'clock he opened his eyes and spoke with firm voice to tho nurse close at hand. " Send for my secretary," he commanded her.

" One moment, please—l shall have to ask Dr "Wostover first." " Do so', then." The nurse stepped to an adjoining room, where was dozing, fully dressed, Bertram's trusted assistant—a man in the ■ mid-thirties. of extraordinary ability, who for seven years had worked side by side with his beloved chief. In a moment he was standing by the patient, alert, dim, resourceful. "Well, Mr Kinston." he said, with the cheeriness which formed not the least part of his remarkable personality, "how are things going?"

"The entire list has touched par agam," I '^ ie other replied with an answering smile. " and the market is as steady as a rock." Accustomed as he was to the unexpected. Dr Westover this time was astonished : for the patient's voice was clear, decisive, strong, and his glance as positive, unwavering as that ol' a man in normal health. " 1 want, my secretary sent for," Kinstoti added," "to take a letter." " Don't you think it would be better to wait until morning?" the young surgeon suggested insinuatingly. "No, sir! It must be mailed tonight! I never wait when J want to do a thing." Ivinston spoke with such insistanee that Westover looked inquiringly at the nurse, who handed him the chart. The patient's temperature, taken but a leuminutes previous, was eminently satisfactory. " 1 "won't forbid it," said Westover, " but J do wish you would put away ail thought of business until to-morrow : anyhow.'' '"'lt isn't business; it's downright pleasure. . . . And the Lord knows I haven't had any too much of that for a good many years. ... 1 want to write a, note'of gratitude to Bertram." "Ho would be better_ pleased if you should wait a few day."."

"Perhaps; but I'm just selfish enough to insist on doing it to-night." Westover was in a quandary. lie did not wish to oppose this unusual patient too strongly—the results might be unfortunate. " Bertram has not merely brought me back from the edge of Night Everlasting,'" continued Kinston, " but he has rescued mo from the Pit ol Torture indescribable. I'm going to write and toll him so, and send liini ;i cheque before I sleep again. . . . He's a great man. isn't he -a great surgeon?" "The Oid World knows but four who are his equals," "Westover replied soberly. "He stands head a he! shoulders above everyone else this side of the water."

There was a silence ; then the railway magnate .suddenly demanded: "What will be his charge for this

job?" "Nothing exorbitant, you may >e sure. Mr Kinsfoii. Dr Bertram :s peculiar—-indifferent to money.'' "So 1 have heard." A smile, indicative of grim .satisfaction, flickered across the patient's face, and Westover's heart sank within him. He had commenced to hope that at last Bertram would be paid a sum cmnmoiisura.te with his services in saving the life of an enormously rich patient. Kinston interrupted this quick train of thought. "Send for my secretary!" he exclaimed almost savagely, trying to raise himself on one elbow. " Lie back there, Mr Kinston," commanded W-estover, gently inclining him again to the pillows. "I'll do anything you ask if you'll let mo get off that one note," the other continued doggedly. Westover turned to the. nurse. '' Send for Mr Kinston's secretary.'' he said.

In ,'i, few minutes this >-* mi mini was at- his employer"* bedside 1 , notc!)Ook in hand. •• Tak» this to i)r Jietrravu," Kinsi.on ordered : "My Dear Sir.---1 have derided to : mibi, omiin. ami endow I'ur -ill time the most complete and efficient surgical Hospital in the world. To be located ■ i! Now York City and to ho called the rJertram Memorial. V lease select tholiest site obtainable ami have plan* drawn lor nit- to go over ii.s acoa as I

am able to transact business again. Shall need your services as adviser in this matter for as many years as you are willing to devote to it. Inclosed find retaining-fcfe of same amount I am accustomed to hand my legal-advisers in affairs of corresponding importance. Your annual salary as expert adviser to me in connection with the Bertram Memorial is set at ten thousand dollars; to begin to-day. Payablo whenever you wish to draw on it. Kindly forward your bill for professional services i-endered me this afternoon and evening.—Very truly yours, ." Tho secretary looked up from his notebook. " That letter must be mailed tonight." said Kinston. "Typewrite it at once and bring it to me for signature. Tnclose cheque drawn to Dr Bertram's order for five thousand dollars, and charge construction account of Bertram Memorial.''