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--M.D., 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 indoors 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 morn 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 turned 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.
It was necessary that she should be allowed some repose after the
state of excitement to which she had put herself, and half-past five
was the hour named. Dr. Davenal and Mark appointed to be with her
then.
"Mark," asked the doctor, as they walked away together, "are you sure
of yourself?"
Dr. Davenal had had no experience hitherto of Mark Cray's skill as a
surgeon, except in common cases. All critical operations, both at the
Infirmary and in private practice, the doctor took himself. Mark
looked at the doctor in surprise as he heard the question.
"Sure! Why, of course I am. It's quite a simple thing, this."
"Simple enough where the hand is experienced and sure," remarked the
doctor. "Not so simple where it is not."
"Of course I have not had your experience, Dr. Davenal; but I have had
quite sufficient to ensure my accomplishing this, perhaps as skilfully
as you could."
Mark spoke in a resentful tone; he did not like the reflection that he
thought was cast upon him by the question. Dr. Davenal said no more.
He supposed Mark _was_ sure of his hand's skill.
"I shall give her chloroform," resumed Mark.
"No!" burst forth Dr. Davenal. He could not have interrupted more
impetuously had he been interposing to dash it from her lips. He
believed that Lady Oswald would be a very unfit subject for
chloroform; one of those few to whom it is not safe to administer it;
and he explained this to Mark Cray.
Mark turned restive. Strange to say, he, who had hitherto been content
to follow in the medical steps of Dr. Davenal, watching his treatment,
pursuing the same, more as a pupil takes lessons of a master than as a
man in practice for himself, seemed inclined to turn restive now. Did
Mark Cray, because he had married the doctor's niece, had become
connected with him by private ties, was now a more equal partner,
fully recognised--did he deem it well to exercise that right of
independence which we all love, for it is inherent in the hearts of
the best of us, and to stand up for his own ways and his own will?
"I like chloroform," he said. "I consider it one of the most blessed
inventions of the age."
"Undoubtedly; where it can be safely used."
"I have used it fifty times," rejoined Mark.
"I have used it fifty and fifty to that," said the doctor,
good-humouredly. "But, Mark, I never used it in my life upon a
doubtful subject, and I never will use it upon one."
"What do you call a doubtful subject?"
"What do I call a doubtful subject?" repeated the doctor. "You know as
well as I. How many patients has chloroform killed? Upon certain
natures"----
"Very few," interrupted Mark.
"Very few, as compared to the whole," acquiesced the doctor. "You may
administer chloroform with perfect safety to ninety-nine patients, and
you cannot to the hundredth. Upon certain natures, as I was about to
observe, its effects may be fatal. And where there is this doubt,
Mark, it should be acted upon."
"The cases are so rare."
"True. And the important thing for a medical man, in these cases, is
to discern where chloroform may be given with safety and where it may
not."
"It is impossible that he can do that with any certainty."
"Not at all," said Dr. Davenal. "I never knew my judgment fail. I
believe it is a gift, this ability to distinguish the subtle
difference in natures. Perhaps I may call it instinct, more than
judgment, for I think it could not deceive or lead me to an erroneous
decision."
"I am not sure that I understand you," said Mr. Cray. "My belief is,
that I possess nothing of the sort. I think you must be talking of a
species of second sight."
"Then, Mark," was the half-joking answer, "allow yourself to be guided
by my 'second sight.' To speak seriously," the doctor continued, in a
graver tone, "I know that there are many practitioners, clever men,
who do not possess this peculiar insight into nature. It is a great
gift for those who do. It can never be acquired by practice; it must
be inherent"----
"I suppose you think I don't possess it," interrupted Mark.
"I don't think you do. But for one of us who possesses it, numbers
don't; so it is no disparagement to you to say so. To return to the
question: Lady Oswald, in my opinion, would prove an unsafe subject
for chloroform."
"She will make so much of the pain."
"Better that she should make much of it--ay, and feel it--than that
any risk should be run. I cannot allow chloroform to be given to Lady
Oswald."
Mark Cray demurred: not outwardly, for he said not another word; but
inwardly. He was of that class of men who disbelieve what they cannot
see. Some of us will look into a man's face and read his character,
read him for what he is, as surely and unerringly as we read the pages
of a book; but others of us, who do not possess this gift, cannot
believe that it exists, laugh at and ridicule the very idea of it.
Just so was it with Mark Cray. That assertion of Dr. Davenal's, that
some faculty or instinct within him enabled him to discern where
chloroform might and might not be administered, was utterly scouted
by Mark Cray. That subtle instinct into nature, that unerring,
rapidly-formed judgment of a sick man's state, the mental grasping
instantaneously of the disease and its remedy, Mark Cray possessed
not. To the very end of his life he would never learn it. Dr. Davenal
said that out of numbers of medical men only one would possess it, and
he was right. How many do not possess it, and go on to their career's
end unconscious of their deficiency, they themselves will never know.
Mark could see no reason why Lady Oswald should not be eased of her
pain by the aid of chloroform; he did not for a moment believe the
doctor could; he regarded it as a crotchet, and a very foolish one.
But he suffered the question to rest, and supposed he must bow to the
decision of his senior partner.
"Shall I call for you, Mark?" asked the doctor, as they separated. "I
shall go up in the carriage."
"O no, thank you. I'd as soon walk. You intend to be present?"
"Or course I shall be," replied the doctor. "Lady Oswald is my
patient, in point of fact--not yours, Mark."
"Then I need not ask Berry. I thought of asking him to be present."
"You can do just as you please about that. If you like him to look on
at you, you can have him. Twenty-five minutes after five, remember,
punctual. You'll want the full daylight."
As they parted, a feeling was in Mark's heart that he would not have
liked to confess to the other, and that perhaps he neither cared to
encourage nor to dwell upon. He felt perfectly sure of his own
skill; he was not nervous; nobody less so; and yet there was a
half-reluctance in his mind to perform that operation in the presence
of Dr. Davenal, the skilled and accomplished operator. Surely the
reluctance could only spring from a latent doubt of whether he ought
to make so sure of himself! A _latent_ doubt; one not suffered to
appear down far in the depths of his heart it lay--so deep that
perhaps Mark thought it was not there at all, that it was only fancy.
He had a great deal rather have had Berry with him--_that_ he
acknowledged openly enough to himself. Surgeon Berry was a man of fair
average skill, superior to Mark in experience, and he and Mark were
great friends. Did Mark fear that the presence of the more finished
and perfect surgeon, with his critical eye, his practised judgment,
would render him nervous--as a candidate for the Civil Service
examinations will break down, simply because those searching eyes are
on him? No, Mark Cray feared nothing of the sort; and he could not
have told, had he been pressed, why he would have preferred the
absence of Dr. Davenal. He had looked on many a time at the doctor in
such cases: but that was a different thing.
His thoughts were interrupted by Julius Wild. The young man accosted
him to inquire if there were any orders--whether he should be wanted.
"Yes," said Mr. Cray. "Lady Oswald's case is fixed for this afternoon.
You be up there with the dressings and things."
"Very well, sir," replied the young man, feeling some surprise; for he
was not in the habit of attending privately with Dr. Davenal "Am I to
go to Dr. Davenal's for them?"
"No. You can get them from the Infirmary."
"The Infirmary!" thought Julius Wild to himself. "Can _he_ be going to
take the operation?"--for Mr. Cray's surgical apparatus was kept at
the Infirmary. He did not ask: his professional master seemed
unusually silent--not to say cross.
"What time?" he inquired of Mr. Cray.
"Be at Lady Oswald's a little before half-past----"
The blank above is put intentionally, for it cannot be told with
certainty what hour was really said by Mr. Cray. In the discussions
upon it that ensued afterwards, Julius Wild declared in the most
positive manner that it was _six_. "A little before half-past six."
Mr. Cray asserted, with equal pertinacity, that he had said five. "A
little before half-past five." Which of the two was right it was
impossible to ascertain. Mark Cray said he should not be likely to
make the mistake: the time, half-past five, had been just fixed
upon with Dr. Davenal, had been repeated by word of mouth, and he
had never thought of the hour six at all. There was plausible reason
in that, certainly. On the other hand, Julius Wild was known for a
clear-headed, steady, accurate young man, and he protested he could
stake his life upon his correctness in this instance. He said the
thought crossed his mind, when Mr. Cray named it, that half-past six
would be the dusk hour; and he rather wondered within himself that it
should have been chosen.
However it may have been, the misapprehension did occur between them.
When Dr. Davenal entered his own home, dinner had been over some time.
It was their custom to dine early on Sunday: and the general rule was,
by Dr. Davenal's wish, never to keep meals waiting for him. Neal
admitted him, and then came for orders. Should he bring up the dinner?
"Not the dinner," said Dr. Davenal; "just a bit of something upon a
plate. I am not hungry: I had a late breakfast at Thorndyke. Has
anybody been here for me?"
"No, sir. I think Mr. Cray took your patients. He has been here"----
"I know all about that," interrupted the doctor.
He passed Neal, and went on to the garden-parlour, a favourite room of
his daughter's. She was there alone, seated before the open glass
doors. How peaceful it all looked! The green lawn stretching out in
front, the bright hues of the autumn flowers, the calm purity of the
dark blue sky lying in the stillness of the Day of Rest. Sara Davenal
had that good Book upon her lap: but she was not then reading it. She
had closed it in deep thought. Her sweet face was turned upwards, her
eyes were filled with tears from the intensity of her gaze; it seemed
that she was looking for something in the autumn sky. The extreme
calm, the aspect of peace, struck forcibly on the senses of Dr.
Davenal, and he remembered it in the days to come. It was the last day
of peace for him; it was the last day of peace for Sara; henceforth
the world was to change for both of them. Ere the morrow's sun should
rise, a great care, a great trouble, would be tugging at their
heartstrings; a skeleton would be there to keep; a secret, that must
be hidden for very safety's sake, would have taken up its abode there.
Dr. Davenal was upon her so quickly that she could not conceal her
glistening eyes. She started up to welcome him, and laid down the
book. Owing to that most attentive habit of Neal's, of being on the
watch and opening the door before people could get to it, she had not
heard him come home.
"O papa, is it you? You have been away a long while."
"Sit down," he said, pressing her into her chair again. "What's the
grief, Sara?"
"No grief, papa. I was only thinking."
"What about? The accident last night?"
"O no, not that. I hear that everybody's going on quite well. I was
thinking--I was wondering--somehow I often get thinking on these
things on a Sunday, when I am sitting alone, and the sky seems so calm
and near," she broke off.
"Well, what were you thinking?"
"I was wondering whether they who are gone can look down and see
us--see me just as I sit here looking up--whether they can read my
thoughts. We seem so divided, papa; you and I and Edward left; mamma
and Richard, and the two little ones who were between me and Edward,
gone."
"Divided for a short while only, child."
"Yes, I know. The only one I can remember well is Richard. I am
beginning to lose almost all recollection of mamma. But Richard--papa,
at times I seem to see him before me now!"
Dr. Davenal turned to the window and stood with his back to Sara,
looking out. She repented having spoken of her brother; somehow the
words had slipped out in the fulness of her thoughts. Rising, she
stole her hand into Dr. Davenal's.
"I forgot, papa," she softly whispered.
"Forgot what, my child?" he asked. "Nay, it might be just as well if
we all spoke more of Richard, instead of shunning his name. Silence
will not bring him back to us."
"Ah no, it will not!"
"And when once griefs can be talked of, their sting becomes less
poignant. Did the post bring any letters this morning?" the doctor
added, after a pause.
"Not for you, papa. There was one--how could I forget to tell
you?--there was one for me from Edward."
"And what does he say?"
"He has not been able to get leave yet. At least, from the tenor of
his letter, I don't much think he has asked for it. He says there's a
great deal to do; that the preparations are going on very quickly; but
no orders have been received yet as to the day for embarking. As soon
as they are issued he will let us know."
"But he means to come down?"
"O yes. He will be sure to come, he says, though it should be to
arrive by one train and return by the next. He writes in great
spirits, and asks me--in a joke you know, papa--if I will pack up my
boxes and go out with him."
"He---- What is it, Neal! My dinner?"
"Yes, sir. It is served."