The Americans (25 page)

remark, he apologized. He knew Will was a first-class whip, a fast driver but not a reckless one. And runaway horses were a frequent sight on the streets beneath the Third, Sixth, and Ninth Avenue Elevated Railroads. Once Gideon calmed down, he was inclined not to blame his son for the accident. He finally said so. Will was grateful. He told his father that immediately after the wreck, he'd sent a bootblack to fetch the stable owner. From that individual he'd obtained a written statement acknowledging the horses were returned unhurt. He passed the paper to his father. "Now he won't try to sue you for trumped up injuries to his animals." Next Will had squared matters with a policeman from the patrol district in which the accident had occurred. The policeman had been sympathetic, and had helped Will find and hire some men with a wagon to remove the wreckage of the coach from Third Avenue. Gideon was pleased by the presence of mind his son had displayed. It was a characteristic new to Will's personality; surely one of the beneficial results of his summer with Roosevelt. Another result of that summer remained to be discussed. "I'm thankful you weren't injured," Julia was saying. backslash Gideon nodded. "So am I. Do you want some whiskey?" "No thanks." "Care to get rid of that coat? I'd like to have a talk with you." "A talk? What about?" "Your plans." Will stuck his scuffed boots out in front of him. "As far as I'm concerned they're settled. I don't want to enter Harvard as a regular undergraduate. I want to take the fall entrance exams for the Medical School." "You mean it isn't too late?" Julia asked. "No," Will answered. "They're given just before the term starts at the end of September. If I pass and the school still has an opening, I can enroll right away. I want to." Gideon sat in his chair, facing his son. He laced his fingers between his knees as he leaned forward. "I appreciate the sincerity of your wish. I appreciate that you met a man out West whose work you thought important, and worthy of emulation. I had a high regard for the one doctor I knew well-Cincinnatus Lemon, the man who took care of me when my eye was put out at Fort Delaware. But the worthiness of the work doesn't change the nature of the medical profession-or the way the public perceives it. .medicine has never been an altogether respectable calling. Have you ever read the apocryphal books of the Bible?" "No, sir." "In Ecclesiasticus, the author says, "He that sinneth before his Maker-let him falleth into the hands of the physician." his Julia smiled. But Will didn't-. He propped his elbow on the chair arm and put his chin on the heel of his palm, watching his father warily. "Since that uncomplimentary statement was made centuries ago," Gideon went on, "there's been very little reason for anyone to amend it. Medicine has always been a haven for idiots and charlatans. It still is. This sterling work-was He picked up the book at his side. "comis Dr. Paul's Remedy Compendium, It was published just last year." He opened the book. "I quote. Sleeplessness. Take half a pound of fresh hops and put into a small pillow case and use for a pillow." He turned the page. "Moles - to remove. Apply nitric acid with a pointed quill toothpick. I'm sure that will remove moles, all right. Half your skin, too." Another page. "Baldness

to cure. One pound pressed hemlock bark -" He snapped the book shut. "I needn't go on. The point's obvious. Here we are in the modern world, and someone who styles himself a doctor is writing prescriptions that are mostly nonsense, and in some cases downright harmful." He waved the book. "Unfortunately, this is all too typical of the profession." "I admit the truth of what you say, Papa. I just dont know why you're saying it." "I should think that would be obvious." Ignoring Gideon's sharp tone, Will shook his head. "I watched Lon Adam cure sickness and help people who were suffering. When I saw that, I saw something I admired. I also discovered I could do it. I mean I have the stomach for the grisly part. The sight of blood doesn't bother me. I want to go to medical school and I'm not going to change my mind." "But you must have all the facts before you commit yourself," Gideon insisted, jumping up and beginning to pace. "Medical education in this country is a joke. Anyone who apprentices for a few weeks can obtain an impressive- looking degree from a diploma mill." Will nodded. "Adam had one of those." "The medical schools aren't much better than the apprentice programs. Charles Eliot has made some improvements at Harvard since he took over as president, but professors of the caliber of Oliver Holmes are rare." "Then if Harvard isn't all that good, I should have no trouble getting in. I can enter without regular college training so long as I pass the tests." "But you have to be twenty-one to graduate," Gideon countered. "I know that for a fact." "Harvard has a four-year program. If I enroll in that, I'll get more thorough training than I would in their three-year program, and I'll be just the right age at graduation." Grudging admiration showed on Gideon's face for an instant. "All right-let's grant that you can earn your degree. What can you look forward to then? Damned little except grueling work. Most doctors have to turn to something else to earn a living." Will was growing exasperated with Gideon's negative thinking. "I know that." caret "As for earning the respect of society in general-you might as well hope to have Lillian Russell fly through that window in the next thirty seconds. A few, a very few doctors are lucky enough-or well-connected enough-to have a practice that gives them both a good income and some social standing. Such practices don't aid and comfort the suffering masses, however. Far from it. In a profitable practice, the doctor only treats a few wealthy households- servants included. All his work is performed in the mansions of his clients. Open an office for anything besides scheduling your time or handling your accounts and you're telling the world you're second rate. To use an office to treat ordinary folk-or to work in a hospital or free clinic-either one's an outright admission of failure." "Papa, let me ask you something. Whatever happened to the idea of people in this family helping others-regardless of the economic consequences?" "That idea is very much alive." "How can that be? You obviously don't want me to go to medical school-was "On the contrary, sir!" Gideon retorted. "I said no such thing!" Their voices had risen, and now a fist hammered the wall of one of the adjoining bedrooms. "Quiet down or we'll call the manager!" Ignoring the complaint, Will scowled at his father. "By God, sir, you've got me confused. Just what the hell is it you want of me?" ill Gideon drew a long breath. He avoided Julia's eyes; her face showed her disapproval of the way he'd allowed the discussion to become a shouting match. He resumed his pacing, but more slowly, and said: "I apologize for raising my voice. I had no intention of starting a quarrel. I simply don't want you to decide to go into medicine, then belatedly recognize its negative aspects and quit." "I recognize every one of them right now," Will

clared. Gideon didn't believe him. Still, he was greatly encouraged by the conviction in his son's voice. When he spoke, his warm tone showed it: "Just one final word, then. Your stepmother and I really don't want to discourage you. The fact is, if you do go ahead, it will make us extremely proud. Despite all the drawbacks, a career as a doctor would be in the best tradition of this family." Will's jaw had fallen. "If you'll forgive my saying so, Papa, you have a damned strange way of encouraging someone." Smiling again, Julia said, "Your father felt it was his duty to make certain you understood what you were undertaking." "I do," Will told her. "I know it won't be easy to make a handsome living as a doctor. But I think I can do it. In any case, I'll bear all the risks involved in the decision." In fact, some of his father's remarks had come as a happy revelation. Gideon had mentioned the very kind of doctor he wanted to be; one who served a select group of affluent patients, and grew rich and renowned in the process. I'll keep the promise. You'll see, Carter. Gideon strode forward and clasped his son's arm. "I know you can handle the course work at Harvard, no matter how diffi-oh good God." He drew his hand away from Will's sleeve. His fingers were sticky with a dark brown substance. "Axle grease," Will said with a rueful smile. "That's about all that's left of the Brewster." "It makes no difference. None!" Father and sop embraced. Julia could see her husband's face over Will's shoulder. Gideon looked happy for the first time in months. A Successful Man AT FIRST WILL WAS ecstatic over his father's endorsement of the decision to go to medical school. Then memories of some of Gideon's statements about the security of a medical career began to erode that enthusiasm. Forty-eight hours after the discussion, he was again in a doubtful frame of mind. Despite a steady rain, he set out to walk and think. From Madison Square he headed up Broadway-the Rialto, New Yorkers called it. Here you found all the best theaters, some with their marquees already electrified. One day Eleanor's name might appear on the gaudy posters pasted up in front of a New York playhouse. She might even have her name listed above the title of the show-a sign of true eminence. His sister, at least, was sure of the rewards that her profession offered. Of course she'd never be respectable. The best people considered actors and actresses no better than those who earned a living in trade. If a Society hostess invited the cast of a hit play to perform for her guests, the cast members were never allowed to dine or mingle with the regular guests. still want more than that, he thought as tie passed the Standard Theatre at Thirty-third Street still don't want just the sufferance of the best p. 1 want acceptance. A roast chestnut vendor was closing up his little cart at the corner of Thirty-fourth. The vendor gave Will a puzzled stare as he hurried by, a faraway look on his face. To the vendor it seemed as if Will was trying to gaze all the * way to the rocky ledges of Central Park, where wild goats wandered. Will was actually trying to plan his future. Certain things about it were already evident. For one, he knew that if he were to find a place in society, he'd have to do it on his own. Even if he wanted to live off the Kent fortune-which he didn't-the money would never provide an entree to the best circles; it was too new. The Kent name wouldn't help, either. Might be a hindrance, in fact. Besides the notorious Ward McAllister encounter, there was something else cloudy, even sinister, about Gideon's past, something to do with the death of a man named Thomas Courtleigh. No one ever said Gideon was responsible for Court- leigh's death. But Will's father had been in Courtleigh's office when- Courtleigh was killed in mysterious circumstances. Will had also gotten strong hints at home that Courtleigh was the person responsible for his stepmother's stabbing at the same time. He remembered that part vividly. For days, he and Carter had kept a vigil at Julia's bedside, expecting her to die. Gideon had gone to Chicago, beside himself with anger and grief. And while he was in Chicago, Thomas Courtleigh had been shot to death- Whatever else was unclear about the whole affair, one thing was certain. It had left the Kent name permanently tainted. The rain pelted Will's face. He blinked and looked around. He'd walked all the way to the fifties on Fifth Avenue. Fifty-second Street was just ahead. On his left rose the huge, fortress-like triple brqwnstone built by William Henry Vanderbilt. Both Vanderbilt and his father, the old Commodore, had been immensely wealthy. Neither had been accepted into Society. Yet one of William Henry's sons, William K. Vanderbilt, was now one of Society's leaders. His wife was the woman who had humbled Mrs. Astor. He crossed Fifty-second to the northwest corner, and the house Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt had commissioned Richard Morris Hunt to design. Depending on your views about mixing the architecture of a French chateau and a Renaissance palace and erecting the result on Fifth Avenue at a cost of three million, the mansion was a masterpiece or a monstrosity. For Will the house had special significance. With luck and diligence, you could climb higher than your parents had been able to climb. You could escape the limitations they had placed on themselves-and you-by reason of their birth, occupation, and behavior. To most Americana, that sort of highly visible accomplishment was epitomized by admission to Society. Will genuinely wanted to help others. That was why medicine held such a strong appeal for him. But he also wanted to fulfill his promise-and, not incidentally, disprove his dead mother's accusations. This morning, in the rain, he was overwhelmed by a conviction comt there was only one way for him to realize both ambitions, and that was to live on a footing equal with the country's elite. It was a thoroughly American goal, he reminded himself. The half-French, half-English bastard who'd founded the Kent family had shipped to the colonies for precisely the same reasons-to escape the limitations of his past and better himself. William K. Vanderbilt's mansion perfectly summed up Will's new, sharply focused ambition. It was the kind of house he wanted to own someday. It was inhabited by the kind of people with whom he wanted to associate. He leaned against the stone stoop of the mansion, studying the roofline with an envious expression. Suddenly the front door flew open. A man in the maroon livery of the Vanderbilts appeared, gazing down through the rain to where Will stood on the sidewalk. "No loitering on these premises. Move along!" By God he would find a way to make his chosen career bring him all this. Abruptly, then, he knew he must take an important precaution before the family returned to Boston comand certainly before he tackled the medical school entrance examinations. He had to speak with a doctor of the kind Gideon had described. A wealthy, successful city practitioner. Before he invested four years in a hard program of study, it would be wise to verify that there were doctors who lived well from their profession. "I said move along!" the footman called. "If you don't, we'll flash a message to the precinct house." Will grinned and held up his hands in a peacemaking gesture: "All right, I'm going." He started to walk backwards. "But I'll be coming to visit one of these days. I'll be invited." The footman stood gaping from his shelter under the massive stonework blazoned with acorns and oak leaves, the emblems of the family. Will did a kind of impromptu jig on the sidewalk, paying no attention when a hack rolled through a puddle and sprayed him with muddy water. "Invited here?" the footman said to himself, closing the massive door. "He's utterly mad. What is happening to New York?" ii The staff of the Union included a reporter who specialized in scientific subjects. Will went to see him at Gideon's suggestion, though he didn't tell his father the precise reason for the visit. He merely said he wanted to do some investigation of the medical field. Gideon seemed to approve. The reporter was cordial when Will dropped in, and agreed to help him contact one of the town's better doctors: "I suppose you want to speak with the most skillful man you can find?" "Skillful? Not necessarily. I want to meet a successful one." "There's a difference?" "To me there is." The reporter frowned, less friendly now. The next day he sent a list of names to the hotel. One name was underlined, with a marginal notation: Said to have a net comworth in excess of one million. This would make him most "successful" of those listed. Will fumed over the cynicism. But he soon pushed aside his annoyance. All that mattered was locating a prosperous doctor who would answer some candid questions. That, the reporter had done: Cyrus Coates Vlandingham, M.d. Even the name had the ring of success. Dr. Cyrus Coates Vlandingham conducted his practice in a number of large homes in and adjacent to Stuyvesant Square. Here dwelled what was called the Faubourg Saint- Germain Set-New York's oldest and most prestigious families, aristocrats who refused to follow the "new swells" who were moving uptown to Fifth Avenue. Vlandingham maintained a tiny office near Madison Square, but this was solely for handling his books. He had no consulting rooms. Will sent his note to the bookkeeping office. After two days he received a reply. Dr. Vlandingham agreed to meet him, but it would have to be at Sherry's, where the doctor always lunched when in the city. Vlandingham's note then made gratuitous mention of summering in Newport, a small resort town on an island in Narragansett Bay. Forty or fifty years earlier Newport had been a popular warm-weather retreat for Southern rice and cotton planters. Now it was beginning to attract some of the better New York families. Will put on his best outfit and took a hack to Sherry's at the appointed time. A pompous head waiter with gleaming patent leather pumps and waxed mustache points bowed him to Dr. Vlandingham's regular table in a quiet alcove. The doctor was in his late fifties. A husky man; broad- shouldered, with a midsection resembling a prize pear. Large dark eyes and a deep, hearty voice instantly inspired confidence. He wore expensive clothes. Will marveled at the nonchalance with which Vlandingham ordered luncheon and wine for both of them-in French. As the waiter glided away, Vlandingham said: "I am of course familiar with your family, Mr. Kent. And with your father's newspaper. A Socialist rag, if you don't mind my saying so. The Union's soft position on the Haymarket bombers is particularly dangerous to American institutions. Men like those anarchists waste the time of our judiciary. They're animals and they've proved it. They deserve lynching, not due process." From the pocket of his waistcoat the doctor took a small gold box. Out of the box came a gold toothpick. "But your note said you were contemplating a medical career, not one in journalism." That's right, sir." "Happy to hear you've chosen something respectable." An unctuous smile. Then Vlandiagham began to work the gold toothpick between two lower front teeth. Will resented Vlandingham's remarks about the Union, although he'd heard similar criticism many times before. He supposed it was a tribute to the power of his father's newspaper that the doctor had agreed to this meeting in spite of his disgust with the Union's editorial viewpoint. Presently the doctor finished probing between his teeth and laid the toothpick aside. An obsequious sommelier served the wine. There was an elaborate ritual involving the drawing of the cork, Vlandingham sniffing it, the waiter pouring a little into Vlandingham's glass, and the doctor sipping. After ten seconds of frowning reflection, he gave a nod of approval. At that point the waiter filled both glasses. "I believe you'll enjoy the wine," Vlandingham remarked as he took another sip. "It's an unpretentious but frolicsome little Vouvray." To Will it tasted like a cold, faintly sweet white wine, nothing more. He knew the fault was with himself, not the wine. He was increasingly in awe of the doctor. "By the way, Mr. Kent. Lest we conduct this interview on the basis of mistaken assumptions, I must inform you that my practice does not lend itself to apprentices. I have never had one, in fact." "I'm not looking for an apprenticeship, sir. If I can pass the entrance tests next month, I plan to study at Harvard." "Oh, do you. Well, university training seems to be the preferred method these days. I was educated under the apprentice system, and I remain partial to it." A purse of the lips, quick and self-satisfied. "It is the method advocated in the Hippocratic oath." They drank more wine. "Have you decided to undertake any specialized training at Harvard, Mr. Kent?" Will smiled. "No, Doctor, I hadn't thought that far. I'm just starting to cram for the entrance tests." "A specialty is no laughing matter, sir! It can be highly lucrative. I'd suggest you consider one in particular. The treatment of female diseases." He leaned back, twirling his wine glass. "It's a specialty which neither taxes the practitioner's intelligence nor un288 duly dominates his time. That's because all female complaints, from prolapsus uteri to nervous headaches to various cancers, have but one source-the uterus. And one cause-some deficiency therein. Despite the claims of a few crackpots, the old, familiar treatments are still the best. I refer to application of leeches-injections-cauterization. Do consider it, sir. It can be worth a great deal of money to you. Especially in a well-to-do neighborhood." At that, Vlandingham allowed himself a smile. Will was impressed. Primed by the wine, the doctor grew less formal. He draped an arm over the plush banquette and said: "Harvard's supposed to have a good medical school. The trouble is, too many universities are employing professors who teach radical rot. Listerism-was He gave the word a dirty sound. Will had done some reading about Joseph Lister. The English surgeon believed in using carbolic acid to prevent transmission of infection. Lister had stated the idea more than twenty years before, but it still was not universally accepted. Even some of the Harvard medical faculty violently opposed it. Vlandingham wanted to be sure Will had no doubt about his opinion: "Listerism is nonsense. Only last week, I treated a young female patient afflicted with a mild case of puerperal fever. One hour later I supervised the delivery of another patient's fine infant son, and I saw no need to perform foolish, ritualistic hand-washings in between. Of course it might be a sensible precaution for doctors who must work in the public almshouses, and in general hospitals. There the air is usually foul, and consequently a carrier of disease." The
disdainful expression on Vlandingham's face said that of course he never found it necessary to enter such low establishments. Still, a hand-washing might have been in order, Will thought. The doctor's fingernails looked none too clean. After pouring more wine, Vlandingham raised his glass. "Here's to your ambition, Mr. Kent. Now in what specific way may I be of assistance?" Will began his carefully planned appeal: "I need advice, Dr. Vlandingham. Can I look forward to a decent future if I study medicine? I believe it's a doctor's duty to help as many people as he can. It's that aspect that started me thinking about medical school in, the first place-was "Laudable, very laudable." But Vlandingham had lost interest. Even as he spoke, he was shifting his attention to three fashionably dressed young women at a nearby table. His eyes grew moist as he watched them. Will went on: "On the other hand, I don't want to become a doctor and starve." Vlandingham's chuckle had an arch sound; Will had recaptured his interest: "Do I appear to be starving, Mr. Kent?" "No, but-maybe you're an exception." "Quite right. I am an exception because I have chosen to be. You can make the very same choice." Will shook his head, dubious. "A lot of people, my own father among them, tell me that being a doctor means being a pauper too." "People who say that are thinking solely of run-of-the- mill physicians. Short-sighted mediocrities who permit their altruism to override their common sense. I was born amid the rocks of New Hampshire. Early on, I decided I would never tolerate the sort of poverty my father endured in a lifetime of farming. When I finished my appreticeship I married a young woman of poor health but impeccable family connections. She's long dead now, God rest her-was Again his eyes slid across the rim of his glass to the breasts of one of the young women. A sip; a delicate belch. Then he dabbed his lips with the back of a veined hand and continued: - "The various entries my wife provided before her untimely death enabled me to establish a practice which now earns in excess of one hundred thousand dollars per year. How much in excess we shall leave to your imagination. But I assure you, Mr. Kent-it is entirely possible to practice the healing arts without wearing the hair shirt. Does that answer your question?" "Yes, Doctor. It does." "Excellent! Believe me, doctors who go hungry have chosen to go hungry. They regard their oath as more important than the contents of an investment portfolio-an error I do not make, I assure you. Then, having engineered their own failure, they point an accusatory finger at any physician who is successful." Vlandingham noted a flicker of uncertainty in Will's eyes. He leaned forward: "One must not, of course, leave the impression that nothing matters except profit. The practice of medicine is important in and of itself. But I make no apology for plying my skills among those who can best afford to pay. Each physician serves a certain segment of humanity either by chance or by choice. Some choices, however, are incomprehensible. My older brother is also a doctor. Growing up in New Hampshire together, we were quite close. He had one queer streak in his makeup, however. He seemed to consider our father's toil on the farm acceptable. Even ennobling, somehow. Ridiculous, eh? My brother and I started on the same road. Our paths soon parted, however. Clement married the daughter of the man under whom he served his apprenticeship. An old country practitioner. A misguided dodderer who believed his first obligation was to his patients, not himself. My foolish brother caught that disease and hied himself to the worst slum in this city-was "He practices in New York?" Vlandingham nodded. "The need was keenest in the slums, he said with that superior air I quickly came to loathe. Perhaps he likes the slums because he has no competition. Everyone wants to practice in my part of town. Only a madman or a hack would choose his. But he's stayed there to this day, surviving God knows how. His wife died eighteen months ago, worn out by helping him eke out a pathetic living. We never see one another. I can't stand his odor of failure. Or his stupidity." Vlandingham finished his wine. "Why should a doctor choose to serve any segment of humanity except the best? The answer is, he shouldn't. Not if he possesses an iota of intelligence or self-esteem. No, Mr. Kent," he concluded in a reflective way, "be neither ashamed of your desire to make money in medicine, nor doubtful of your ability to do so." Will watched his host with admiring eyes. Overwhelmed by Vlandingham's worldliness and hence persuaded by his arguments, he silently agreed with everything the doctor said. Cyrus Coates Vlandingham was obviously a successful man, and one worth emulating. When Will went into practice, his hands might be cleaner, but his style of life would be comparable . And by means of his skill, he'd rise to the topmost level of society and leave the other Kents and their questionable reputation far behind. The waiter arrived with plates bearing silver dishes. In each dish, raw oysters on the half shell rested on a bed of rock salt. Vlandingham made an appreciative murmur, then added a final thought: "The splendid thing about medicine is that it can serve the practitioner as well as the patient. One must only remember to put first things first-was His brown eyes slid past Will to one of the young women at the nearby table. She had raised her arm. Now she lowered it, concealing the lush curve of her breast. Vlandingham sighed, then noticed Will watching. He broke into a big 'smile. Winked and said: "First things first-eh, Mr. Kent?" Will smiled too. "Absolutely." "I believe you'll make a very intelligent doctor." So saying, Vlandingham attacked his first oyster with a small silver fork. Part of the oyster refused to come free of the shell. With no hesitation, the doctor laid his fork aside and resorted to his fingers. He popped the remaining bit of oyster into his mouth, ate it with lip-smacking gusto, then licked his fingers one by one. CHAPTER XV Journey's End THE LATE SEPTEMBER DAY carried a bitter foretaste of winter. The sky was gray, the wind gusty, the intermittent rain unusually cold. The rain grew heavier just as Will reached the foot of the massive marble staircase. It had a set of steps on each side, leading up to a landing and the main entrance of the Harvard Medical School. The school building stood on Boylston Street at Exeter, in Boston. After having been located near Massachusetts General Hospital for nearly forty years, the school had moved to this new, more modern structure in 1883. Will shivered as he hurried up the steps. Rain dripped from his hat, and despite kidskin gloves, his hands were growing numb. He carried a small, cheap satchel. The satchel contained his admission papers, including one which verified that he'd passed the examinations in English, Latin, physics, chemistry, and one elective-he'd picked botany-and had therefore been admitted to the medical school. The steps were slippery. Will kept his eye on them as he rushed to the top. Consequently he failed to see another young man coming up the stairs on the opposite side. On the landing, the two of them collided. Will's left shoe slid out from under him. If he hadn't grabbed the balustrade with his left hand, he'd have taken a bad fall. As it was, his flailing loosened his grip on the satchel. It shot away, flung into a high arc that ended a few seconds later on the pavement of busy Boylston Street. He clutched the stone railing and watched a team pulling a brewery wagon clip-clop over the satchel, knocking it back and forth under their hooves. When the wagon passed, he saw that the satchel's clasp had broken open. He started to run down the steps. Suddenly the wind scooped the papers from inside the satchel and scattered them in all directions. "Oh my God," he said in disgust, stopping. From the landing, the other young man said, "I'm really sorry, old fellow. My fault, I'm afraid." Will turned and forced himself to say, "Just an accident. No one's fault." The other young man looked relieved. He was a year or two older than W. And fat-Lord above, he was fat. If Vlandingham was a pear, this chap was a giant melon, with a smaller melon perched on top. Curly red-gold hair, soaked now, lay close to his head. His face and ungloved hands were white and soft as bread dough. His plain muffler and dark, tent-like overcoat looked homemade. The rain slacked off abruptly. Will was nervous about walking through the doors of Harvard Medical School for the first time. The building had a forbidding quality. So he was almost grateful for a distraction, although he'd have preferred some other kind. There was no point in rushing to collect his papers. They were ruined; soaked by muddy water and torn by the traffic. Even as he looked down, a sway-backed hack horse paused and made a steaming deposit on one of them. Will's mouth dropped open. Students were coming up both sides of the staircase. Some-upperclassmen, to judge from their studied air of boredom-laughed at his bad luck. Others, inexperience clearly written on their faces, did not. But he quickly saw the humor in the situation and broke out laughing. The fat boy joined in. "New student, are you?" he said to W. In marked contrast to his appearance, his voice was forceful, even a trifle bullying. He pronounced are as if it were spelled ah. "That's right. My name's Will Kent." "Drew Hastings." They shook hands in a solemn way. Hastings" hand was much stronger than it looked. "From Boston?" Will asked. "Born in Bangor, Maine. I live in Hartford, Connecticut now." It came out Hahtford. "Are you taking the four year program?" A shake of the head. "Three. You?" "Four-if I can survive that long." "Well, the addition of cum laude after my degree is a luxury the Hastings family can't afford. That's the only substantial difference between the programs, you know. Af'four years, you graduate doctor of medicine cum laude." He sounded defensive. And what he'd said about the programs was oversimplified. Will saw no point in arguing, though. Hastings wiped a stubby nose that had developed a drip. "By George, I truly am sorry I didn't see you." Will laughed again and pointed to the paper on which the horse had relieved himself. "That's a hell of a way to start, isn't it? There's one consolation. Things surely can't get worse." "Oh, I don't know," Hastings countered in a teasing tone. "Because of the local laws, the school is always short of cadavers. I hear underclassmen are sometimes sent out to dig up one or two." "Dig-?" "Figuratively or otherwise. No questions asked." Hastings glanced at the papers littering the street. "I wouldn't even bother to pick those up. Come on, let's get out of this wretched weather." Will didn't move. "What's the matter?" Hastings asked, "Haven't changed your mind, have you?" Will's chin came up a little. "Not on your life." "Then let's go in." "You go ahead. I'll get my satchel. The papers are ruined but maybe the satchel isn't." "Suit yourself," Hastings said with an amiable shrug. He turned and marched through the doors. his Students continued to stream up both stairways. They paid no attention to Will as he returned to the street and rescued the mud-spattered satchel. Doing that gave him a few minutes to gather his nerve and reflect on the remarkable events that had brought him here, to this place, at this moment. He had learned a great deal on the long journey that had taken him to Theodore Roosevelt's ranch in the Dakota Bad Lands; to Lon Adam's side at the campfire; to Vlandingham's table at Sherry's Restaurant, and then to Harvard. At last he could see the continuity of the journey. He hadn't realized it at the time, but each step had led inevitably to the next. And from here, he knew exactly where he wanted to go: To possession of a mansion like William K. Vanderbilt's. To prominence as a member of Society. To a good marriage with someone who could help him establish a practice among the best people, as Vlanding- ham's wife had done. And most important of all, to fulfillment of his promise to his stepbrother. Slowly, he started up the steps again. Halfway to the landing, he quickened his pace. Started taking the steps two at a time. One journey was over, another beginning, Roosevelt was wrong, he thought as he strode to the doors. There was no need to make a choice. But if there ever were such a need, he was sure about which way he'd gt greater-than . He would go Vlandingham's way. That same night, Gideon turned over in bed and punched his pillow. Julia murmured in the dark: "Can't you sleep, darling?" "No." "Are you upset about something?" "On the contrary, I feel wonderful. I've been thinking of Will, that's all. He said his first day at Harvard was just fine." "I'm glad. But I'm terribly sleepy." "All right, I'll be quiet." He kissed her cheek, then slipped his arm around her and held her close. A sudden painful pressure at the midpoint of his chest reminded him of time hurrying on. But now it no longer mattered quite so much. Idealism had finally won out over less laudable characteristics. Gideon's son-his best hope for leadership of the family-was on the right path at last Book Three The Upward Path In Galveston THAT AUTUMN, AS WILL was starting the long climb to the goal he'd set for himself, Carter was wandering with no goal, and a doubt in his mind as to whether he would ever find any work that suited him. He'd left Texarkana in the spring, drifting south. He'd tried cattle ranching and a number of other jobs. All had proved unsatisfactory. He spent no more than a week at any of them, always moving on. As a golden October began, he reached the Gulf Coast of Texas with just a few dollars in his pocket. From Galveston Bay he took a ferry out to the thriving port city at the east end of Galveston Island. A man in Houston had told him there was always cargo to be handled at the harborside, and strong backs needed to handle it. Perhaps he was drawn to the long, flat island with its subtropical vegetation because it was a shipping center. It smelled of the sea. It reminded him of home. The bad memories of his last months in Boston were fading; some of them, anyway. He missed the bustle of the docks, and the carefree life of people who made then" living from fishing and maritime commerce. He felt at ease as he wandered by the piers and saw the baled cotton, the barrels of flour, the drums of rope, and the crates of cigars waiting to be shipped. He spent the afternoon of his first day in Galveston strolling residential side streets near the center of town. He passed low adobe walls with luxuriant gardens on the other side. The heavily-shaded houses, mostly with a Spanish flavor, looked substantial and not inexpensive. Palmetto leaves rattled their spear-like foliage in the warm sea wind. He could