DR. READE
I cannot recall anything about the play. I only know that we had
excellent seats and a good view of the house, and that mother seemed
to enjoy everything. As to Mr. Randolph, I doubt if he did enjoy that
play. He was too much a man of the world to show any of his emotions,
but I saw by a certain pallor round his mouth, and a rather dragged
look about his eyes, that he was suffering, and I could not imagine
why. I had always in my own mind made up a sort of story about Jim
Randolph. He was one of the fortunate people of the earth; the good
things of the world had fallen abundantly to his share. He was nice to
look at and pleasant to talk to, and of course he had plenty of money.
He could do what he pleased with his life. I had never associated him
with sorrow or trial of any sort, and to see that look now in his eyes
and round the corners of his somewhat sensitive and yet
beautifully-cut mouth, gave me a new sensation with regard to him. The
interest I felt in him immediately became accelerated tenfold. I found
myself thinking of him instead of the play. I found myself anxious to
watch his face. I even found, when once our eyes met (his grave and
dark, mine, I daresay, bold enough and determined enough), that my
heart beat fast, and the colour flew into my face; then, strange to
say, the colour came into his face, dying his swarthy cheek just for a
moment, but leaving it the next paler than ever. He came a little
nearer to me, however, and bending forward so that mother should not
hear, said in a semi-whisper--
"You have thought about what I said this morning?"
"I have thought it over a good deal," I replied.
"You think it can be managed?"
"Dr. Anderson, mother's family physician, would do what you require,
Mr. Randolph."
"That is a good idea," he said. "Anderson can arrange a consultation.
I will see him to-morrow, and suggest it."
I did not say any more, for just then mother turned and said something
to Mr. Randolph, and Mr. Randolph bent forward and talked to mother in
that worshipping son-like way with which he generally addressed her.
If mother had ever been blessed with a son, he could not have been
more attentive nor sweeter than Jim Randolph was, and I found myself
liking him more than ever, just because he was so good to mother, and
my heart ached at the prospect of his enforced and long absence. So
much did this thought worry me, that I could not help saying to him
as we were leaving the theatre--
"I am very sorry that you are going."
"Is that true?" he said. His face lit up, his eyes sparkled; all the
tired expression left his eyes and mouth.
"Are you saying what you mean?" he asked.
"I am most truly sorry. You have become indispensable to mother; she
will miss you sorely."
"And you--will you miss me?"
I tried to say "For mother's sake I will," but I did not utter the
words. Mr. Randolph gave me a quick glance.
"I have not told your mother yet that I am going," he said.
"I wondered if you had," I replied. "I thought of telling her myself
to-day."
"Do not say anything until nearer the time," was his somewhat guarded
response. "Ah! here comes the carriage."
"So you did order the carriage after all," I said, seeing that the
same neat brougham which he had used on the last occasion stopped the
way.
"You never forbade me to see you both home in the carriage," he said
with a laugh. "Now then, Mrs. Wickham."
Mother had been standing a little back out of the crowd. He went to
her, gave her his arm, and she stepped into the carriage, just as if
it belonged to her. Mother had always that way with Mr. Randolph's
possessions, and sometimes her manner towards him almost annoyed me.
What could it mean. Did she know something about him which I had never
heard of nor guessed?
The next day about noon Mr. Randolph entered Jane's sitting-room,
where I often spent the mornings.
"I have just come from Anderson's," he said. "He will make an
appointment with Dr. Reade to see your mother to-morrow."
"But on what plea?" I asked. "Mother is somewhat nervous. I am sure it
would not be at all good for her to think that her indisposition was
so great that two doctors must see her."
"Anderson will arrange that," replied Mr. Randolph. "He has told your
mother once or twice lately that he thinks her very weak, and would
like her to try a new system of diet. Now Reade is a great specialist
for diseases of the digestion. Both doctors will guard against any
possible shock to your mother."
"Well," I said somewhat petulantly, "I cannot imagine why you are
nervous about her. She is quite as well as she ever was."
He looked at me as if he meant to say something more, and I felt
certain that he strangled a sigh which never came to the surface. The
next moment he left the room, I looked round me in a state of
bewilderment.
In Jane's room was a bookcase, and the bookcase contained a
heterogeneous mass of books of all sorts. Amongst others was a medical
directory. I took it up now, and scarcely knowing why I did so, turned
to the name of Reade. Dr. Reade's name was entered in the following
way:--
"Reade, Henry, M.D., F.R.C.P., consulting physician to the Brompton
Hospital for Consumption, London, and to the Royal Hospital for
Diseases of the Chest, Ventnor."
I read these qualifications over slowly, and put the book back in its
place. There was nothing whatever said of Dr. Reade's qualifications
for treating that vast field of indigestion to which so many sufferers
were victims. I resolved to say something to Jane.
"What is it?" said Jane, as she came into the room. "What is fretting
you now?"
"Oh, nothing," I answered. "Dr. Reade must be a very clever
physician."
"First-class, of course. I am so pleased your mother is going to see
him."
"But I thought mother was suffering very much from weakness and want
of appetite."
"So she is, poor dear, and I am inventing quite a new sort of soup,
which is partly digested beforehand, that I think she will fancy."
"But I have been looking up Dr. Reade's name. He seems to be a great
doctor for consumption and other diseases of the chest. There is no
allusion to his extraordinary powers of treating people for
indigestion."
"Well, my dear, consumptives suffer more than most folks from
indigestion. Now, don't you worry your head; never meet troubles
half-way. I am extremely pleased that your mother is to see Dr.
Reade."
On the following morning mother herself told me that Dr. Reade was
coming.
"It is most unnecessary," she said, "and I told Dr. Anderson so. I was
only telling him yesterday that I thought his own visits need not be
quite so frequent. He is such a dear, kind man, that I do not like to
hurt his feelings; but really, Westenra, he charges me so little that
it quite goes to my heart. And now we have not our old income, this
very expensive consulting physician is not required. I told Dr.
Anderson so, but he has made up his mind. He says there is no use in
working in the dark, and that he believes I should be much stronger if
I ate more."
Dr. Reade called in the course of the morning, and Dr. Anderson came
with him. They stayed in mother's room for some little time, and then
they both went out, and Jane Mullins had an interview with them first,
and then she sent for me.
"Dr. Anderson wants to speak to you, Westenra," she said. She rushed
past me as she spoke, and I could not catch sight of her face, so I
went into her little sitting-room, where both the doctors were
waiting for me, and closed the door behind me. I was not at all
anxious. I quite believed that mother's ailment was simply want of
appetite and weakness, and I had never heard of any one dying just
from those causes.
"Let me introduce you to Dr. Reade," said Dr. Anderson.
I looked then towards the great consulting physician. He was standing
with his back to the light--he was a little man, younger looking than
Dr. Anderson. His hair was only beginning to turn grey, and was
falling away a trifle from his temples, and he was very upright, and
very thin, and had keen eyes, the keenest eyes I had ever looked at,
small, grey and bright, and those eyes seemed to look through you, as
though they were forcing a gimlet into the very secrets of your soul.
His face was so peculiar, so intellectual, so sharp and keen, and his
glance so vivid, that I became absorbed in looking at it, and forgot
for the moment Dr. Anderson. Then I glanced round and found that he
had vanished, and I was alone with Dr. Reade.
"Won't you sit down, Miss Wickham?" he said kindly.
I seated myself, and then seeing that his eyes were still on me, my
heart began to beat a little more quickly, and I began to feel
uncomfortable and anxious, and then I knew that I must brace myself
up to listen to something which would be hard to bear.
"I was called in to-day," said Dr. Reade, "to see your mother. I have
examined her carefully--Dr. Anderson thinks that it may be best for
you Miss Wickham--you seem to be a very brave sort of girl--to know
the truth."
"Yes, I should like to know the truth," I answered.
I found these words coming out of my lips slowly, and I found I had
difficulty in saying them, and my eyes seemed not to see quite so
clearly as usual; and Dr. Reade's keen face seemed to vanish as if
behind a mist, but then the mist cleared off, and I remembered that I
was father's daughter and that it behoved me to act gallantly if
occasion should require, so I got up and went towards the little
doctor, and said in a quiet voice--
"You need not mind breaking it to me; I see by your face that you have
bad news, but I assure you I am not going to cry nor be hysterical.
Please tell me the truth quickly."
"I knew you were a brave girl," he said with admiration, "and I have
bad news, your mother's case is----"
"What?" I asked.
"A matter of time," he replied gravely; "she may live for a few months
or a year--a year is the outside limit."
"A few months or a year," I said. I repeated the words vaguely; and
then I turned my eyes towards the window and looked past it and out
into the Square. I saw a carriage drawn by a spirited pair of bays, it
passed within sight of the window, and I noticed a girl seated by
herself in the carriage. She had on a fashionable hat, and her hair
was arranged in a very pretty way, and she had laughing eyes. I was
attracted by her appearance, and I even said to myself in an uncertain
sort of fashion, "I believe I could copy that hat," but then I turned
away from the window and faced the doctor.
"You are very brave," he repeated; "I did not think any girl would be
quite so brave."
"My father was a brave man," I said then; "he won his Victoria Cross."
"Ah," replied Dr. Reade, "women often do just as brave actions. Their
battles are silent, but none the less magnificent for that."
"I always meant to get the Victoria Cross if I could," was my reply.
"Well," he answered cheerfully, "I know now how to deal with things; I
am very glad that you are that sort. You know that Jim Randolph is a
friend of mine."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Who is Jim Randolph? why should
he be a friend of everybody worth knowing? but I did not ask the
question. I put it aside and said gravely--
"The person I want to talk about is mother. In the first place, what
is the matter with her?"
"A very acute form of heart disease. The aortic valve is affected. She
may not, and probably will not, suffer much; but at any moment, Miss
Wickham, at any moment, any shock may"--he raised his hand
emphatically.
"You mean that any shock may kill her?"
"That is what I mean."
"Then she ought to be kept without anxiety?"
"That is precisely what I intend."
"And if this is done how long will her most precious life be
prolonged?"
"As I have just said, a year is about the limit."
"One year," I answered. "Does she know?"
"No, she has not the slightest idea, nor do I want her to be told. She
is ready--would to God we were all as ready--why distress her
unnecessarily? She would be anxious about you if she thought she was
leaving you. It must be your province to give her no anxiety, to guard
her. That is an excellent woman, Miss Mullins, she will assist you in
every way. I am truly sorry that Jim Randolph has to leave England.
However, there is not the slightest doubt that he will hurry home, and
when he does come back, will be time sufficient to let your mother
know the truth."
I did not answer. Dr. Reade looked at his watch.
"I must be off," he said. "I can only spare one more moment. I have
made certain suggestions to my old friend Anderson, and he will
propose certain arrangements which may add to your mother's comfort. I
do not want her to go up and down stairs much, but at the same time
she must be entertained and kept cheerful. Be assured of one thing,
that in no case will she suffer. Now, I have told you all. If you
should be perplexed or in any difficulty come to me at once. Come to
me as your friend, and remember I am a very special friend of Jim
Randolph's. Now, good-bye."
He left the room.
I sat after he had gone for a moment without stirring; I was not
suffering exactly. We do not suffer most when the heavy blows fall, it
is afterwards that the terrible agony of pain comes on. Of course I
believed Dr. Reade--who could doubt him who looked into his face? I
guessed him to be what he was, one of the strongest, most faithful,
bravest men who ever lived--a man whose whole life was given up to the
alleviation of the suffering of others. He was always warding off
death, or doing all that man could do to ward it off, and in many many
cases death was afraid of him, and retired from his prey, vanquished
by that knowledge, that genius, that sympathy, that love for humanity,
which overflowed the little doctor's personality.
Just then a hand touched me, and I turned and saw Jim Randolph.
"You know?" he said.
I nodded. Mr. Randolph looked at me very gravely.
"My suspicions have been confirmed," he said; "I always guessed that
your mother's state of health was most precarious. I can scarcely
explain to you the intense pain I feel in leaving her now. A girl like
you ought to have some man at hand to help her, but I must go, there
is no help for it. It is a terrible trial to me. I know, Miss Wickham,
that you will guard your mother from all sorrows and anxieties, and so
cheer her passage from this world to the next. Her death may come
suddenly or gradually, there is just a possibility that she may know
when she is dying, and at such a time, to know also that you are
unprovided for, will give her great and terrible anxiety." Here he
looked at me as if he were anxious to say more, but he restrained
himself. "I cannot remove her anxiety, I must trust for the very best,
and you must wait and--and _trust me_. I will come back as soon as
ever I can."
"But why do you go away?" I asked, "you have been kind--more than
kind--to her. O Mr. Randolph! do you think I have made a mistake, a
great mistake, in coming here?"
"No," he said emphatically, "do not let that thought ever worry you,
you have done a singularly brave thing, you can little guess what
I--but there, I said I would not speak, not yet." He shut his lips,
and I noticed that drawn look round his eyes and mouth.
"I must go and return as fast as I can," he said abruptly. "I set
myself a task, and I must carry it through to the bitter end. Only
unexpected calamity drives me from England just now."
"You are keeping a secret from me," I said.
"I am," he replied.
"Won't you tell me--is it fair to keep me in the dark?"
"It is perfectly fair."
"Does Jane know?"
"Certainly."
"And she won't tell?"
"No, she won't tell."
"Does mother know?"
"Yes, and no. She knows something but not all, by no means all."
"It puzzles me more than I can describe," I continued. "Why do you
live in a place like this, why are you so interested in mother and in
me? Then, too, you are a special friend of the Duchess of Wilmot's,
who is also one of our oldest friends. You do not belong to the set of
people who live in boarding-houses. I wish, I do wish, you would be
open. It is unfair on me to keep me in the dark."
"I will tell you when I return," he said, and his face was very white.
"Trust me until I return."