DOCTOR MAX.
The Society of the Altruists was very busy indeed. The Christmas
entertainment to which allusion has been made was a project of Frances
Morland’s, who, among her other qualifications for the public service,
possessed the gift of diplomacy. She was sincerely anxious to help
others, and to enlist her friends in the generous enterprise; but she
knew that the boys and girls of Woodend were no different from their
fellows, and therefore liable to sink gradually into a condition of
lukewarmness about any scheme which did not make a constant appeal to
their active interest. The lack of some fillip to stir up the young
people’s energies had already brought about the destruction of numerous
undertakings in Woodend which had made a gallant start, and Frances was
determined to save her Society from such an untimely fate.
Everybody was pleased with the prospect of giving an entertainment in
which everybody might play some part. The guests were to be the poor of
Woodend, and the festivity was to take place two days before Christmas.
Frances suggested this date as best suited to the guests, who would
doubtless like to parade some, at least, of the Altruist presents at
their own home-gatherings of Christmas-day. Christmas-eve was not a
possible feast-day, because the Carlyons liked their pupils to join in
the carol-singing after the evening service, and the service itself was
one which the young people seldom cared to miss. Then there was so much
to be done at home in the way of decorations and private plans.
Therefore, many dwellers in the cottages of Woodend were looking
forward expectantly to the twenty-third of December. Their excitement,
however, was as nothing in comparison with that of the Altruists.
Frances had made skilful division of her forces. Some were to act in a
fairy play, written for the occasion by Florry Fane, who intended one
day to astonish the world of literature; some were painting scenery,
preparing “properties”, or making dresses for use in the play; some
were practising solos, duets, and part-songs for the concert which was
to precede the play in the evening’s programme. Then there were those
whose souls inclined not to literature, drama, or music: to them fell
the task of arranging the commissariat department, and the means of
distributing gifts so as to please everyone.
It was Saturday evening, in the second week of December. Up the
straggling village road came, whistling cheerily, Max Brenton,--the
“man of affairs”, as Florry had dubbed him. Max’s well-worn coat was
buttoned closely, and his crimson comforter had been tied, with utter
disregard for appearances, over his cap, so as to shield his ears.
A bitter east wind blew about him, and as he went he swung his arms
vigorously to aid his progress, and stamped his feet to resist the
clinging snow.
“Hope Dad has got home,” thought the boy fervently. “Old Carrots
isn’t too lively, and this is a regular mucky night. Ugh, what slush!
Freezing hard, too, now. I said that sudden thaw wouldn’t hold. Well,
anything’s better than slush--for us. I’m afraid the ninety-year-olds
and the babies will suffer.”
The Doctor’s son trudged soberly on. He was fresh from the
playing-fields, tired, cold, and hungry for the tea which ought to be
waiting him. As he trudged, he hoped many things. That Janet had not
forgotten to order Dad’s steak. That the dining-room lamp would not
have gone out for the third time that week. That the fire would not
have gone out to keep the lamp company. Janet was eccentric in her
dealings with lamps and fires, and had a sort of general idea that
Saturday was sacred to the service of the kitchen, and not to be wasted
over trifling matters belonging to “the family’s” part of the dwelling.
The Doctor and Max had been for a dozen years “the family” to whom
Janet had consecrated her faithful labours. She had been already old
when the Doctor had found her seated in dry-eyed despair beside the bed
of her dead husband, and had forthwith bidden her to his home, whence
the sole servant had departed to face the wedded life just over for
Janet.
Max had always taken Janet for granted, and had ceased to wonder
why she never mended the holes in his stockings all at once. Janet
preferred doing repairs in instalments.
“For there may be a toe out here and there, and there may not, Master
Max,” she would observe; “and small odds is it about maybe a toe. But
it’s heels I was at last mending-night, and it’s heels you’ll find
darned solid.”
Much anxious study of the mystery which doth hedge a needle made Max at
last independent of Janet’s darning. Not to vex the poor old lady, he
quietly supplemented her labours with personal industry; and when Janet
did heels he did toes. Buttons he regarded as a trifle, and even a
patch--if no longer to be avoided by care and ingenuity--was not beyond
his utmost skill.
Max had graver anxieties than darning. There were, for instance, the
money-box and the account-books.
The Doctor’s income was not to be accurately anticipated, but its
highest possible total never cost Max much labour in the way of
sending in bills. There were so many “gratis” patients. Some were too
poor to pay save in thanks; some were old friends, whom the Doctor
could not endure to serve except for love alone. When those patients
who could pay remembered to do so, the Doctor cashed their cheques and
put the change into the money-box--leaving out only a fixed sum, which
went to a fund called by Max “Examinations”, and intended to provide
for his medical studies by and by. It was a great grief to the Doctor,
and therefore to Max, when inroads had to be made into this fund in
order to pay the tradesmen’s weekly books. Dread of such a necessity
made the darkest hour of Saturday that which Max gave to the family
exchequer. His face always wore a portentous solemnity when he raised
the lid of the money-box.
The Doctor’s home was an odd little crib standing far back from the
road at the very top of a long garden. Alongside of the house was a
one-stalled stable and coach-house combined, with a paved square before
it and a side-door opening into a lane. Carrots, the Doctor’s ancient
steed, was of the nondescript red colour which had suggested to Max
his name, and consequently might be seen afar off; a fact that added
greatly to his popularity with poor patients anxiously on the look-out
for the Doctor. For years the Doctor had trudged afoot on his messages
of healing; but a small legacy from a wealthy cousin had sufficed for
the building of the stables and for the purchase of Carrots and the
trap. The Doctor had friends in Woodend who gladly would have made him
the owner of a thoroughbred, a brougham, and a palatial coach-house;
but there were limits beyond which a poor man’s pride permitted not the
dearest friends to go.
As Max neared his home he put his best foot forward--stepped more
sturdily, whistled more cheerily. The lights he watched for had just
come into view, when he caught the sound of a child’s sobbing somewhere
in the darkness beyond.
“Hallo! who’s there?--Hold hard, don’t run away! Why, Polly, it isn’t
you?”
A very tiny, choked voice replied:
“’Es, Mas’r Max.”
“Gracious! Fancy your mother letting a mite like you be out this
weather! What are you doing, Polly?”
“Please, Muvver’s felled into the fire and frizzed--”
“What?”
Polly repeated her news among louder sobs.
“And Muvver said: ‘You go find Dokker’, and I comed.”
“You brave little thing!” cried Max; and, stooping, he lifted the
baby-girl into his arms. “‘Dokker’s’ out, Polly,--at least, I’m afraid
he is.” Max had missed the light from the Doctor’s sanctum. “But come
on, and we’ll see.”
Max held Polly close, and ran, wondering meanwhile what tragedy
had taken place in Lumber’s Yard. The yard was the poorest part of
Woodend--a cluster of wretched cottages, the property, like most of the
village, of Sir Arthur Fenn of Fencourt, the absentee lord of the manor.
“How did Mother get hurt?” inquired Max.
This query drew forth a rigmarole in baby-English, whence, by careful
reasoning and shrewd deduction, Max gathered that Polly’s mother had
rushed to the soothing of her youngest son, aged six months, had fallen
across the wooden cradle and dropped against the grate. Whether or not
the hurts were serious, of course the boy could not guess; but he knew
the necessity for the speedy dressing of burns, and hurried on at his
best pace.
To save time, Max avoided the front door, and darted round to the
back--a region where Janet reigned supreme. The kitchen door opened
right into the yard, and at the door stood Janet, scolding Tim the
stable-boy, who ought to have been out with the Doctor. Tim played
truant occasionally--just by way of remembering that he was a boy. At
the workhouse, where he had been brought up, he never had attempted to
be anything but elderly.
“Ah, Master Max,” cried Janet, “here you are, sir!--and here’s this
young vagabond come back from his spree, which I’d make him pay dear
for, if I’d my way--but there, the master--”
“Never mind Tim just now, there’s a good soul. Is Dad back? Ah! I
thought he wasn’t. Well, Janet, just take care of Polly for a bit, will
you? I’ll have to snatch up a few things and go myself. I’m afraid Dad
has been kept somewhere, or perhaps Carrots can’t get along. Goodness
knows!”
Max ran through the house to the surgery, shouting explanations while
he went, while Janet packed Tim off in disgrace to the stables, and
proceeded to bestow on Polly a share of her own tea. Presently Max came
flying back with a small bag in one hand.
“Keep Polly here for an hour, Janet,” the boy called out. “I’ll be back
by then, and Tim can carry her home.”
But the hour passed by and Max did not return.
Down in Lumber’s Yard reigned a degree of excitement which seemed
keenly enjoyed by the sharers in it. The news that Bell Baker had been
burned to death was the first rumour, but this gradually modified
itself into something approaching fact. Mrs. Baker was a decent woman,
whom a bad husband kept in a condition of miserable poverty. It was on
behalf of her little Polly that Max, some weeks earlier, had begged
from Frances a “three-year-old frock”.
The entry to Lumber’s Yard was by a narrow foot-path, and this Max
found blocked up by a gesticulating group of women. The men were
congregated in the yard itself--a three-sided court with tumble-down
cottages round it.
“’Ere’s Master Max!” was the general cry, as the boy ran up the path.
“Out of the way, good folks,” cried Max authoritatively, and the women
parted to let him through, then closed their ranks and followed in a
body to the Bakers’ door. This Max unceremoniously pushed open,--and
then as coolly shut and locked in the face of the would-be busybodies.
He had seen that the one respectable neighbour Mrs. Baker possessed
was already by the poor woman’s side, and that thus he was secure of
necessary aid.
The boy’s manner changed when he was fairly in possession of the place.
He went across to the truckle-bed on which the sufferer lay, and,
bending over her, asked softly if he could do anything for her relief.
The pity of the tender-hearted was in his eyes, the skill of the expert
in his hands, while he gently cut away burned clothing and applied
proper dressing to the cruel hurts. Max had been thoroughly trained by
his father in the application of first aid to cases of accident, and
had found plenty of opportunities to make his knowledge of practical
use.
No more urgent need than that of Mrs. Baker had yet presented itself to
his personal care, and after a moment’s thought he determined to take a
further responsibility on his boyish shoulders.
“Where’s Baker?” he asked of the friendly neighbour.
“No need to ask, sir. Where he allus is o’ Saturday nights.”
“Well, he mustn’t be allowed to come in here unless he’s sober. See?”
“Who’s to keep him out, Master Max? Baker’s a bad sort when he’s the
worse o’ liquor.”
“Can’t you lock the door and stand a siege?” demanded the boy, his
eyes sparkling in prospect of such a diversion. “But no,” he added,
professional prudence conquering pugnacious instincts, “that would
worry and frighten Mrs. Baker.” Max looked down thoughtfully on his
poor patient, who lay moaning in semi-unconsciousness. “I’ll do what I
can,” he finished, “and you will help me, won’t you, Mrs. Lane?”
“Sure an’ I will, sir,” said the good woman heartily.
“Then stay here till my father comes. He’ll tackle Joe Baker, if I
don’t succeed.”
Max paused only to speak a few words of sympathy to Mrs. Baker, and
then packed his traps and started off.
At the further end of Lumber’s Yard stood a fair-sized inn, the “Jolly
Dog”, much frequented by the lowest class of the male population. It
was rented by a man named Daniel Luss, whose license had more than once
been jeopardized by the scenes of rioting and drunkenness his premises
had witnessed. But Luss’s landlord was Sir Arthur Fenn, and Sir
Arthur’s county influence was great. Luss willingly paid a high rent,
and the administrators of law and order let him alone.
Max ran across the snow-covered yard straight to the “Jolly Dog”. There
was only one outer door. It led to the bar, and to the inn-parlour,
where the more truculent spirits of Woodend congregated to discuss
village politics and abuse those neighbours who struggled after
respectability. Max knocked loudly on the open door, but no one
appeared. At last, taking his courage in his hands, he stepped within.
For the time the bar was empty, its servitors being busy in the kitchen
behind, where they enjoyed black tea and bloaters and toast to an
accompaniment of unparliamentary language from the adjacent parlour.
Max hesitated a minute, and his heart beat faster. He knew that the men
he was going to face were rough and lawless--often savage and cruel.
One of the worst was Joseph Baker. But the boy recalling the face of
Baker’s suffering wife, went boldly up to the parlour door, pushed
it open and walked in. There was no surprise for Max in the scene
before him--groups of sodden men looming through a thick cloud of
tobacco-smoke, some already in quarrelsome mood, some making the roof
ring with mirthless laughter. The surprise was on the side of the men,
when, a note of exclamation passing from one to the other, they turned
their heavy eyes upon the boyish figure by the door.
“It’s the young Doc’,” grunted a fellow who had entered recently, and
was therefore in possession of his faculties. “Got ’is tools with ’im
too, ain’t he?”
There was a roar of appreciation, and the speaker leaned back in his
chair to think out another sally.
Max knew that what he wanted to say must be said quickly, and, stepping
forward, raised his clear treble to a tone which he hoped might pierce
the dullest ears.
“Men, listen to me a moment, will you? I’ve come to tell you something
you mayn’t have heard. I’m telling it especially to one of you--Joseph
Baker. Baker is here, isn’t he?”
Max had decided wisely not to heed interruptions, but he saw a couple
of hands stretched out to drag a man from a distant corner, and guessed
that the half-obscured, tottering figure was that of Baker.
“Yes, there he is. Well then, Baker, and all of you--I’m sorry to say
there’s been a dreadful accident, and Baker’s wife is badly hurt. She’s
suffering fearfully, but I think she’ll live, with care. Without care
she won’t live, and you know she has a little baby and three other
children. Now, I want Baker to promise me he’ll do what he can to keep
her quiet and comfortable to-night, either by keeping quiet himself
when he gets home, or else by spending the night elsewhere and leaving
his wife to Mrs. Lane’s care.”
“What’s wrong wi’ Bell?” inquired Baker thickly as he stumbled out from
his corner. “If it’s some o’ her bloomin’ nonsense, I’ll make her pay.
I’ll--”
Max broke in and explained clearly the manner of the woman’s injury.
“So she’s gone and half-killed herself, has she?” cried the husband
savagely. “Jist let me git her, an’ I’ll finish the job. Who’s goin’
to cook my wittles, I’d like to know, wi’ her a-shamming in bed? Here,
mates, I’m off home, but I’ll not be long. Wait till I git back, and
I’ll tell ye how I’ve settled Bell.”
Max looked at the wretch with scorn and loathing, and involuntarily
stretched out his arms to bar access to the door behind him. Several
of Baker’s associates grunted applause at the husband’s valorous
determination; but the majority of the room’s occupants were not yet
in a state to be without some feeling of humanity, and these raised
a murmur of shame, of which Max took quick advantage. It had become
evident to the boy that his visit to the “Jolly Dog” on behalf of Bell
would do more harm than good if it sent Baker to her side while she lay
unprotected.
“Yes,” cried Max, taking the word from a stout, good-natured looking
man near to him, “it would be a shame, wouldn’t it, not to do all one
could for poor Mrs. Baker? You know how a burn hurts, even a little
one; so you can guess how she feels now.” The boy paused, longing
for some inspiration which might serve to delay Joe’s departure. Dr.
Brenton might be home by now--would be sure, at the earliest moment,
to hasten after his son. If only Max could hinder Baker from leaving
the “Jolly Dog” until such time as he might be pretty sure of finding
his wife protected by the Doctor’s presence!
“You’ve been ’elping ’er yerself, master, maybe?” asked the stout man,
pointing to Max’s bag of “tools”.
“I’ve tried,” said Max briefly.
“Then I say as you’re a rare sort for a bit of a younker. Ain’t ’e now,
mates?”
Max was surprised, and a little relieved, to hear a chorus of
approbation.
“An’ I’m blest if we don’t drink yer ’ealth wi’ three times three.
’Ere, ’Arry, set the young Doc’ in the middle o’ the table there, an’
fill ’im a mug to ’isself.”
In a moment Max, lifted like a feather by ’Arry, the giant of Woodend,
found himself on the table, and raised above the heads of the village
revellers. A foaming mug was offered to him by the stout man, whom the
others called Jack.
“Thanks,” said the boy, taking a drink, and handing back the mug; “I
was thirsty. You’ve reminded me that I’ve missed my tea, but it will
come just as handy later. Before I go, let’s have a lark together. Make
Baker sit down, some of you; and I’ll call on Hal Tatton for a song.”
Baker was dragged back to his corner by half a dozen hands, and the
men gazed curiously at the brave, boyish figure standing erect and
masterful on the big deal table. He was so far removed from themselves
in person, in bearing, in habit; his voice echoed with so plucky a
note, and his eyes met theirs with so bright an intelligence. What
manner of converse could they hold with a lad like this?
“Now, Hal,” called out Max imperatively, “you’re a good hand at a
lively ditty--let’s have ‘The Boys of England’ without ado. I’ll give
you your key.”
And Max, not entirely unappreciative of his position, started the first
verse of the latest popular melody--a “patriotic” song, reeking of
battle, and defiance, and general jingoism. Hal caught up the air, and
Max subsided until the correct moment, when he demanded a “jolly good
chorus”.
The song ended, Hal retired to his seat amid loud plaudits, and Max
racked his brains for ideas. His glance was on an old clock ticking on
the mantel-shelf. A quarter to eight! Another half-hour and he surely
might reckon safely on his father’s return home as an accomplished fact.
“And then,” concluded the boy in rapid thought, “if he hadn’t got
to Baker’s cottage, I could fetch him before Joe had done any harm.
I’m sure that stout chap would keep him here a bit if I asked him.
The thing is, to hold on a while, and then leave this lively crew in
first-rate temper.”
Max made the best of matters, and, following impulse, addressed the
company.
“That was a right good song, men, and we’re all obliged to Hal for it.
Aren’t we? Yes, that’s the way to say ‘Thank you’. Well now, what for a
change before I go? If you like, I’ll tell you a story I read somewhere
the other day. It’s not long, and it’s no end exciting.”
Max told his story accordingly; and if he were at first gratified
by comparative silence and a fair amount of attention from his
rough audience, he was none the less aware of a beating heart as he
approached his climax. For Max’s tale was a true one, and its chief
incident--exciting, as he had promised--was the rescue of an injured
wife from her husband’s brutality by a band of chivalrous and pitiful
rustics. Max almost held his breath as he concluded. He had played for
high stakes, and might have lost everything.
When the boy’s voice ceased, there was absolute silence; his hearers
had been following him closely. Suddenly Baker started from his corner
with a savage growl.
“’E’s lettin’ on at me, that’s wot ’e is! Do you ’ear me, I say? ’E’s
told that ’ere story agin me; and ’anged if I don’t take it out o’ ’im
instead o’ Bell! No! I’ll git ’im first, an’ Bell arter!”
Baker threw himself furiously towards the table, where Max stood, quiet
and watchful. He knew that he would be helpless in Joe’s clutches, if
no one took his part.
Then Harry uprose, and stepped carelessly to Baker, whom he cast to the
floor with one well-directed push.
“You’re a plucked ’un,” said the giant, surveying Max grimly; “an’
look ’ere, you’re a proper Doc’ an’ you’ve arned your pay. My mates
an’ me”--Harry glanced rapidly round--“we’ll keep that tale o’ yourn
in our ’eads to-night. We’ll take turns to watch Bell’s door, and--my
word on’t,”--he thumped his great fist on the table,--“that skunk Joe
sha’n’t set ’is foot inside till you give ’im leave.”
A roar of confirmation from Harry’s mates set Max’s mind at rest.
“Ah, thank you, Harry!” said Max in real gratitude; “I thought you’d
want to help poor Mrs. Baker. And thank you all,” added the boy
merrily, “for being so kind to me. We had a jolly song, hadn’t we? I
shall call on Hal Tatton for another next time I see him.”
“You’ll get it so soon as ye asks, master,” returned the grinning
Tatton. “I’m not forgetting the way ye cured that sprained wrist o’
mine--I’ll stand by Bell.”
“And me!” “And me!” shouted the voices of many rough fellows who had
met with kindness from the good Doctor or his son.
“Then thank you all again, and good-bye!” cried Max. The men stood
silent, watching him as he went. He had brought with him into the
wretched place a glimpse of brightness, and the loafers of Lumber’s
Yard were sorry to see him go.
Harry the giant kept his word, and told off his retainers to mount
guard by turns over the cottage where Bell lay moaning. By and by he
found it simpler to lock Joe Baker into a shed behind his cottage,
giving him plenty of sacks to keep him warm, and a liberal supply of
food, collected from the neighbours. In this fashion Joe was kept out
of mischief until Bell was up and about again; when Harry’s elementary
sense of justice assured him that he had kept his bond with Max and had
no further right to interfere for the present in the marital affairs of
the Bakers.
During the long hours of his imprisonment, Joe’s memory of Max’s
successful plan stirred the drunken scamp to bitter hatred and a
passionate desire for revenge. But he knew that to raise a finger
against “the young Doc’” would be to set the whole village in a fury;
and dread for the results on his own person made him sulk and scowl in
secret.
Max, on that eventful evening, went from the “Jolly Dog” straight back
to the Bakers’ cottage. There, as he had hoped, he found his father,
and the pair walked home in company.
First, the Doctor bestowed a little judicious professional praise on
his son’s surgical handiwork, and made a few comments for Max’s future
guidance. Next, he turned to a fresh topic--one which, as might easily
be seen, was at the time very seriously in his thoughts.
“I have been to Rowdon to-night, Max.”
“To the smithy, Dad?” asked Max, glancing up quickly. “Is old East any
better?”
“He never could have been better,” said the Doctor quietly; “now he
never will be worse. I was in time, Max, to see the end. It was very
peaceful--just the sleep of old age. There was really no disease.
Nature had worn herself out.”
“Oh, Dad! Poor Jim! Is he all alone?”
“He has his old servant Elizabeth and her crippled husband. But
the lad’s sensitiveness shrinks instinctively from the sort of
condolence people of that class usually offer. You know what I
mean, Max,” continued Dr. Brenton hastily. “I don’t mean that the
sorrow or the sympathy of poor folks is less real than that of their
betters as the world counts degree. But they have different modes of
expression--and--well, Jim is not of Elizabeth’s order. I wondered
why, until to-night. Old East, before he died, solved the mystery for
me.”
“How, Dad?” asked Max in surprise.
“You’ll know some day, sonny. I may tell you only that East didn’t want
me to-night as a medicine man. He knew I could do nothing for him. Now,
Max, I should like you to go to the smithy early to-morrow, and see
what you can do for Jim.”
“I will, of course, Dad.”
“Take him out for a walk--encourage him to speak his heart to you.
’Twill do him good--poor boy! poor boy! I see trials in store for Jim.”
“Perhaps Frances might go with me? She’s the best sympathizer I know
of. And she liked old East, and has seen him several times since the
night we lost ourselves in the snow. Couldn’t I tell her?”
“Her mother would not let her go, Max,” interrupted the Doctor; “I’m
quite sure of it. And perhaps, for many reasons, it’s better she
shouldn’t. But by all means tell her of Jim’s loss. Later on it may be
her lot to console him. Meanwhile, we blundering males can but do our
best.”