Works of Ellen Wood, page 502
It was a bad scald; a shocking scald; there was no question of it; and there was much injury by bruises; but Dr. Davenal spoke the simple truth when he assured the man that the hurts were not dangerous.
“Keep up your heart, Bigg. In an hour’s time you will be in the Infirmary, properly attended to. You’ll soon get over this.”
“I dun know as I can live through the pain, sir,” was the wailing answer.
“Ay, it’s bad. But when we have got the proper remedies on, you won’t feel it as you do now. Bigg, I once scalded my leg badly — at least somebody did it for me — and I remember the pain to this day; so, my poor fellow, I can tell what yours is.”
“Mr. Cray said, sir, I oughtn’t to feel no pain from a hurt like this, he did. It sounded hard like, for the pain is awful.”
“Mr. Cray knows you would be better if you tried not to feel the pain — not to feel it so acutely. He is a doctor, you know, Bigg, and sees worse hurts than yours every day of his life.”
“I’d like to ask you, sir, when I shall be well — if you can tell me. I have got a wife and children, sir; and she’s sick just now, and can’t work for ‘em.”
“We’ll get you up again in three weeks,” said Dr. Davenal cheerily, as he hastened away to another sufferer, groaning at a distance.
The term seemed long to the man: almost to startle him: he was thinking of his helpless wife and children.
“Three weeks!” he repeated with a moan. “Three weeks, and nobody to help ‘em, and me laid down incapable!”
“Think how much worse it might be, Bigg!” said Mr. Oswald Cray, wishing to get the man to look at his misfortune in a more cheerful spirit “Suppose Dr. Davenal had said three months?”
“Then, as good he’d said, sir, as I should never be up again.”
“Do you think so? I don’t It is a long while to be confined by illness, three months, and to you it seems, no doubt, very long indeed; but it is not so much out of a man’s life. I knew one who was ill for three years, and got up again. That would be worse, Bigg.”
“Ay, sir, it would be. I haven’t got just my right thoughts tonight, what with the pain that’s racking me, and what with trouble about my wife and little ‘uns.”
“Don’t trouble about them, Bigg,” was the considerate answer.
“They shall be taken care of until you can work for them again. If the company don’t do it, I will.”
A short while longer of confusion, of hasty clearance of the line, of soothing medical aid, — such aid as could be given in that inconvenient spot, where there was only the open bare ground for the sufferers to lie on, the moonlit sky to cover them, — and the return to Hallingham was organised. The injured were lifted into the carriages and placed as well as circumstances permitted. Lady Oswald, who shrieked out much when they raised her, was laid at full length on a pile of rugs collected from the first-class compartments, and the engine started with its load, and steamed gently onwards.
It appeared afterwards that the accident had been caused by the snapping of some part of the machinery of the engine. It was a very unusual occurrence, and could neither have been foreseen nor prevented.
The expectant crowd had not dispersed when Hallingham was reached. Nay, it had considerably increased. Even Miss Bettina Davenal retained her post, and Sam and Caroline were with her.
The invalid train — it might surely be called one in a double sense — came slowly into the station. The platform had been cleared; none were allowed upon it to obstruct the removal of the sufferers from the train to the conveyances that waited, in which they would be transported to their homes, or to the infirmary, as the case might be. But, if the platform was denied them, the excited watchers made up for the discourtesy by blocking up the road and doors outside — a motley group, picturesque enough in the fine moonlight night Dr. Davenal, Mr. Cray, and the other medical men were occupied in superintending the removal of their patients, but Mr. Oswald Cray found his way to Miss Davenal, and gave them the good news that the injuries were comparatively slight. A train for London was on the point of starting, and he was going by it. He contrived to obtain a few words with Sara, and she went with him on to the platform.
“I wish I could have remained over to-morrow,” he observed to her. “I should like to see and hear how all these poor people get on.”
“Are you sure you cannot remain?”
“I am sure that I ought not You have heard me speak of Frank Allister, Sara?”
“Often. The young Scotchman who was with you at Bracknell and Street’s for so many years.”
“We were articled together. He has become very ill lately, and — and the firm has not behaved quite well to him. I have no voice in that part of its economy, or it should never have been.”
“What did they do?” inquired Sara.
“He has not got on as I have. Still he held a tolerably fair post in the house; but his health failed, and he had to absent himself. Mr. Street found out how ill he was, came to the conclusion that he’d be of no use to us again, and wrote him his dismissal. I thought it very hard; and he — he” —
“Yes!” said Sara, eagerly interested.
“He found it harder than he could bear. It put the finishing stroke to his illness, and I don’t think he will rally. He has no relatives near, few friends; so I see him all I can, and I gave him a faithful promise to spend to-morrow with him. Time’s up, and the guard’s impatient, I see.”
“Does the guard know you are going?”
“Yes. Don’t you see him looking round for me? Fare you well, Sara. I may be down again in a day or two.”
He had taken her hands for a moment in both his as he stood before her.
“I trust you will get safe to town?” she whispered.
“Ay, indeed! This night has proved to us that safety lies not with ourselves. God bless you, my dearest!”
He crossed the platform and stepped into the carriage, which the guard was holding open. The next moment the train was steaming out of the station, Sara Davenal looking after it with a lingering look, a heart at rest, as that sweet word of endearment rang its echoes on her ear.
CHAPTER XIV.
A WHIM OF LADY OSWALD’S.
THE medical body, as a whole, is differently estimated by the world. Some look down upon it, others look up to it; and their own position in the scale of society has no bearing or bias on the views of the estimators. It may be that a nobleman will bow to the worth and value of the physician, will regard him as a benefactor of mankind, exercising that calling of all others most important to the welfare of humanity; while a man very far down in the world’s social ladder will despise the doctor wherever he sees him.
It is possible that each has in a degree cause for this, so far as he judges by his own experience. The one may have been brought in contact with that perfect surgeon — and there are many such — whose peculiar gifts for the calling were bestowed upon him by the Divine will; he with the lion’s heart and woman’s hand, whose success, born of patience, courage, judgment, experience, has become by God’s blessing an assured fact Men who have brought all the grand discoveries of earthly science to their aid and help in their study of the art; who have watched Nature day by day, and mastered her intricacies; who have, in fact, attained to that perfection in skill which induces the involuntary remark to break from us — We shall never see his fellow! Before such a man as this, as I look upon it, the world should bow. We have no benefactor like unto him. The highest honours of the land should be open to him; all that we can give of respect and admiration should be his.
But there is a reverse side to the picture. There is the man who has gone into the profession without aptitude for it, who has made it his, although positively incapable of properly learning it and exercising it. He may have acquired the right to use all the empty distinguishing letters attaching to it, and tack them after his name on all convenient occasions, inscribe them in staring characters on his very door-posts — MD., M.R.C.S, — as many more as there may be to get; but, for all that, he is not capable of exercising the art. His whole career is one terrible mistake. He kills more patients than he cures; slaying them, drenching them to death, with that most pitiful and fatal of all weapons — ignorance. It may not be his fault, in one sense: he does his best: but he has embraced a calling for which nature did not fit him. He goes on in his career, it is true, and his poor patients suffer. More ignorant, of necessity, than he is — for in all that relates to the healing art, we are, take us as a whole, lamentably deficient — they can only blindly resign themselves to his hands, and when they find that there’s no restored health for them, that they get worse rather than better, they blame the obstinacy of the malady, not the treatment. Upon his own mind, meanwhile, there rests an ever-perpetual sense of failure, irritating his temper, rendering his treatment experimental and uncertain. Some cannot see where the fault lies — have no conception that it is in their own incapacity. And if a man does see it, what then! He must go on and do his best; he must be a doctor always; it is his only means of living, and he is too old to take to another trade. Rely upon it there are more of these practitioners than the world suspects.
Such a man as the first was Dr. Davenal; such a man as the last was Mark Cray. But that Mark was so Dr. Davenal suspected not Grave cases hitherto, during their short connection, had been treated by the doctor, and for ordinary ailments Mark did well enough. He could write a proper prescription when the liver was out of order, or bring a child through the measles; he could treat old ladies with fanciful ailments to the very acme of perfection. It is true Dr. Davenal had been once or twice rather surprised by downright wrong treatment on the part of Mark, but he had attributed it to inexperience.
When other doctors could not cure, people flew to Dr. Davenal; when there was a critical operation to be performed, involving life or death, Dr. Davenal was prayed to undertake it. His practice consequently was of wide extent; it was not confined to Hallingham and its vicinity, but extended occasionally to the confines of the county. It was not, therefore, surprising that on the morning following the accident Dr. Davenal found himself called out at an early hour to the country on a case of dangerous emergency. And the illness was at Thorndyke.
He responded at once to the call. Never a prompter man than Richard Davenal. Roger had learnt by example to be prompt also, and was ready with his carriage as soon as his master. The arrangements with regard to saving time were well organised at Dr. Davenal’s. The bell, communicating from the house down the side-wall of the garden to the man’s rooms near the stables was made the means of conveying different orders. ‘ If rung once, Roger was wanted in-doors to receive his orders by word of mouth; if rung twice — and on those occasions they were always sharp, imperative peals — Roger knew that the carriage was wanted at once, with all the speed that he could get it round.
The calm peaceful quiet of the Sabbath mom was lying on the streets of Hallingham as the doctor was driven through them. The shops were all shut; some of the private houses were not yet opened — servants are apt to lie late on Sunday morning. As they passed the town-hall and the market-place, so void of life then, the church clocks struck eight, and the customary bells, giving token of the future services of the day, broke forth in the clear air.
“Stop at the Abbey, Roger,” said the doctor, as they neared it.
The woman, Dorcas, was just opening the parlour shutters. She came to the door when she saw the carriage drawing up to it.
“I want to see your master, Dorcas. I suppose he’s up.”
“He is up and out, sir,” was her reply. “He has been gone about five minutes.”
This answer caused the doctor to pause. It should be explained that when the train of sufferers arrived at the station the previous night, Lady Oswald had elected to be accompanied to her home by Mark Cray, not by Dr. Davenal. Whether she was actuated by pure caprice; whether by a better motive — the belief that she was not hurt so much as some other of the sufferers, and that Dr. Davenal’s skill would be more needed by them; or whether the recent sudden liking she had taken for Mr. Cray swayed her then, could not be told; never would be told. She seemed to be a little revived at the end of the journey, and she chose that Mark Cray should go home with her. Dr. Davenal had acquiesced, but he whispered a parting word to Mark. “If there is an injury, I suspect it will be found in the ribs, Mark. Look well to it If you want me, I’m going on to the Infirmary, and shall be at home afterwards.”
But, as it appeared, the doctor had not been wanted. At any rate, Mark Cray had not sent for him. And he had stopped now to hear, if he could, Mark’s report An upper window opened, and Mrs. Cray, completely enveloped in a thick shawl, so that nothing could be seen of her but the tip of her nose, leaned out.
“Good-morning, Uncle Richard.”
“Good-morning, my dear. I am glad to see you again. Can you come down for a minute?”
“No, I have not begun to dress. Did you want Mark? He has gone to Lady Oswald’s.”
“Ah, that’s what I wish to ask about Did you hear Mark say how she was? — whether there was any hurt?”
“He said there was not But, for one thing, she kept fainting, and refused to be touched. At least, I think he said so, something of that; I was very sleepy when he got home; it was one o’clock. I am sure he said she was not hurt to speak of.”
“That’s all right then,” said Dr. Davenal. “You are out betimes, Uncle Richard,” resumed Caroline. “ Are you going far?”
“To Thorndyke. Tell your husband he must see my patients this morning; I shall not be back in time. Drive on, Roger.”
“Very well,” said Caroline. “Who’s ill at Thorndyke?”
But Dr. Davenal’s answer, if he gave one, was lost in the distance, and never reached Caroline’s ear.
It was a singular coincidence — as was said by gossips afterwards — that one should be taken ill that day at Thorndyke and be in danger of death. It was not, however, one of the Oswald family, but a visitor of Sir Philip’s, and it has nothing whatever to do with the story. It need not have been mentioned, save to explain what took Dr. Davenal from Hallingham on that critical day.
Dr. Davenal found the patient alarmingly ill, in great need of medical help, and he had to remain at Thorndyke some hours. It was between two and three o’clock when he got back to Hallingham, and he ordered Roger to drive at once to the Infirmary.
The doctor went in and saw his patients. The poor man, Bigg, easier now than he had been the previous night, lay in a slumber: the rest were going on well One woman had gone. An inmate of the wards for some weeks past, her case, a very painful one, had baffled all skill, all remedy; and she had gone to that better place where sickness and pain cannot enter. Dr. Davenal stood for some little time conversing with the house-surgeon, and then departed on foot to his home: he had dismissed his carriage when he entered the Infirmary.
As he was walking, he met an eager little fellow scuffling along, one who always walked very fast, with his head pushed out, as if he were in a desperate hurry. It was one of the Infirmary pupils, as they were called; young men gathering skill and experience to become in time surgeons themselves, who attended the Infirmary with their masters. This one, Julius Wild, a youth of eighteen, was more particularly attached to the service of Mr. Cray, went round the wards with him as his dresser, and suchlike. No sooner did he see Dr. Davenal than his pace increased to a run, and he came up breathless.
“Oh, if you please, sir, Mr. Cray has been looking for you everywhere” —
“I have been to Thorndyke,” interrupted the doctor.
“Yes, sir, but he thought you must have come back, and he sent me to about twenty places to inquire. There’s something wrong with Lady Oswald, sir, and he wants to see you about it.”
“What is it that’s wrong?”
“Mr. Cray didn’t explain to me, sir; but he said something about an operation. She’s hurt internally, sir, I think.”
“Where is Mr. Cray? Do you know?”
“He is gone to your house, sir. Somebody told him they saw your carriage going along, and Mr. Cray thought you might be at home. He” —
Dr. Davenal waited to hear no more. He made the best of his way towards home, but before he reached it he met Mark Cray.
There, in the street, particulars were explained by Mr. Cray to Dr. Davenal, not altogether to the doctor’s satisfaction. It appeared that Mark — very carelessly, but he excused himself on the plea of Lady Oswald’s fractious refusal to be touched — had omitted to make a proper examination of her state on the previous night The delay, though not fatal, was inexpedient, rendering the operation which must now be performed one of more difficulty than if it had been done at once; and Dr. Davenal spoke a few sharp words, the only sharp ones he had ever in his life spoken to Mark Cray.
“I told you it was my opinion there was some internal injury. You ought to have ascertained.”
He tamed his steps and proceeded at once and alone to the house of Lady Oswald. She was in a grievous state of suffering; and that she had not appeared so on the previous night could only be attributed to partial insensibility. Dr. Davenal examined into her hurts with his practised skill, his gentle fingers, and he imparted to her as soothingly as possible the fact that an operation was indispensable. “Not a very grave one,” he said with a smile, intended to reassure. “Nothing formidable, like the taking off of an arm or a leg.”
But Lady Oswald refused her consent; as fractiously and positively as she had the previous night refused to be touched. She would have no operation performed on her, she said, putting her to torture; they must cure her without it. Some time was lost in this unsatisfactory manner, and Mark Cray arrived while the contention was going on. Dr. Davenal was at length obliged to tell her a hard truth — that unless she submitted to it, her life must fall a sacrifice.
Then there came another phase of the obstinacy. When people are lying in the critical state that was Lady Oswald, hovering between life and death, it is surely unseemly to indulge in whims, in moods of childish caprice. If ever there is a time in the career of life that truth should reign preeminent, it is then: and these wilful, caprices are born of a phase of feeling that surely cannot be called truth. Lady Oswald consented to the operation, but only on the condition that Mark Cray should perform it What foolish caprice may have prompted this it is impossible to say. Mark had been talking to her, very much as he would talk to a child to induce it to have a tooth drawn or a cut finger dressed: protesting that it “would not hurt her to speak of,” that it “would be over, so to say, in no time.” Dr. Davenal, more honest, held his tongue upon those points: it would not be over in “no time,” and he knew that it would hurt her very much indeed. This it may have been that caused the wretched whim to arise, that Mark Cray should be the acting surgeon. And she held to it.
