THE DOCTOR'S BIRTHDAY.
The dead of the winter passed. That is, Christmas was turned, and
January had come in, and was drawing to a close.
Dr. Davenal's state of health was beginning to attract attention. It
cannot be said that absolute fears were excited, but people said to
each other and to him that he ought to take more care. Especial care
of himself he certainly did not take, and he seemed to take cold upon
cold. It must not be thought that Dr. Davenal was recklessly
neglectful, supinely careless. It was not that at all. But he was one
of the many who seemed to have an assured trust in their own
constitution; almost believing their state of good health immutable.
Other folks are liable to ailments, but _they_ have no fear of
themselves. This is sometimes notably the case with those who have
never experienced illness, who have passed an active life with neither
an ache nor a pain.
As had Dr. Davenal. Of a naturally good constitution, temperate in his
habits, taking a good deal of exercise one way or another, his mind
always occupied, he did not know what it was to have a day's illness.
The great blow which had fallen upon him in the death of his son told
upon his mind more than upon his body. If it had bent his shoulders
and left lines of care upon his face, it had not made him ill. It was
reserved for the later calamity to do that--that terrible secret whose
particulars none save the doctor knew. _That_ had nearly prostrated
him--it had re-acted on the body; and when the cold fastened on him
the day he had to hasten from Mrs. Scott's hot room to the Infirmary,
it laid hold of him for ever.
He could not shake it off. Miss Davenal told him somewhat crossly that
he kept catching cold upon cold; but the doctor himself knew that it
was that first cold hanging about him. He apprehended no real danger:
he did not pay much attention to it. Had he possessed a mind at rest,
he might have thought more of the body's ailments, but with that great
burden of despair--and, in truth, it was little else--weighing him
down, what in comparison was any sickness of body? As to lying by, he
never so much as gave it a thought. So long as he could go about, he
would go about. He thought of others before himself; he was one who
strove hard to do his duty in the sight of God; and he would have
deemed it little else than a sin selfishly to stop indoors to nurse
himself, when there might be fellow-creatures dying for the want of
his aid. It was very easy to say other doctors might attend for him;
we all know how valuable in illness is the presence of the physician
we _trust_; and none in Hallingham was trusted as was Dr. Davenal.
And so, with his aching mind and his aching body, he went about
his work. It is just possible that a fortnight or so's rest might
have saved him but he did not take it. He went about his work as
usual--nay, with more than his wonted activity, for it was a season of
much sickness at Hallingham, as it was that winter in many other
places. He bore on, never flagging; but he grew weaker day by day, and
everybody remarked how poorly the doctor was looking. No fears for his
state were aroused indoors. Sara attributed all she saw amiss in him
to the burden of that great secret, of which she had had only partial
cognisance; and Miss Davenal felt cross with him.
For Bettina Davenal suspected neither illness of body nor illness of
mind. How should she connect the latter with the prosperous physician?
She knew that he had been grieved at the going abroad of his son
Edward, a grief in which she by no means joined, deeming that a little
roughing it out in the world would be found of wholesome benefit to
the indulged son and brave captain; and she rather despised the doctor
for regretting him. He was silent, and thin, and worn; he had no
appetite; his spirits seemed gone; she saw all this, but never
supposed it was caused by anything but the departure of his son.
His not eating was made the worst grievance of by Miss Bettina. Once
before, in an unusual season of sickness, the doctor had--not,
perhaps, lost his appetite, but allowed himself no time for his meals.
Miss Bettina believed that this was a similar case; that his patients
were absorbing his appetite and his energies; and she gave him a good
sound lecturing, as she might have given to Dick. Get what she would
for the table, plain food or dainties, it seemed all one to the
doctor: he would taste, perhaps, to please her, but he could not eat.
"I can't help it," he said to her one day. "I suppose I am worse than
you think."
For the truth, or rather a suspicion of it, had at length dawned on
Dr. Davenal--that he was more seriously ill than he had allowed
himself to imagine. Unfavourable symptoms connected with his chest and
lungs had forced themselves upon his notice on that very morning, and
he asked himself what they meant, and what they boded. Had he
neglected himself too long?
It was the 24th of January, a notable day in the doctor's household,
for it was his birthday, and was always kept amongst themselves. Dick
and Leo made the day a plea for the extension of their holidays. The
school generally reopened about a week earlier, but of course, as
they told their uncle, they could not go back with his birthday so
near: they must stay to wish him many happy returns of it. Miss
Davenal saw no reason in the plea, and was severe when the doctor
allowed it--as he always did; _she_ would never keep boys at home a
single hour after the school opened. But with Uncle Richard to back
them, Dick and Leo did not care for Aunt Bettina.
Yes, it was on this morning that Dr. Davenal awoke to the serious
state of his own health. If what he suspected was true, he feared he
should not be long in this world.
He said nothing. He went out as usual in his close carriage, which he
had latterly used, and forgot not a single call. But he said to
himself that perhaps in a few days, when he should have brought
through, if Heaven willed, one or two patients who were lying in
extreme danger, he might make arrangements for stopping at home and
nursing himself.
On this same day the doctor again saw Oswald Cray. He had occasion to
give some directions to Mark, missed seeing him at the Infirmary, and
told Roger to drive to the Abbey. Upon entering, he found not Mark but
Oswald. Oswald, it appeared, had just called, and was waiting for Mrs.
Cray to come down. Mark was out.
Dr. Davenal cherished no resentment. He deemed that Oswald Cray had
behaved to him badly, but he had never been of a retaliating spirit,
and least of all was he inclined to it now.
The doctor pressed Oswald Cray's hand cordially as he shook it. The
thought flashed over him that he would make one more effort towards a
reconciliation. A few moments given to commonplace salutations, and
then he spoke.
"This is my birthday, Mr. Oswald Cray. Mark and Caroline are coming to
dine with us: will you join them?"
"You are very kind. But I must go up to London by the seven train."
Not a word of "wishing" he could come, or regret that he could not.
The doctor noticed that; he noticed also that his tone was more polite
than warm. But he did not yet give him up.
"It may be the last birthday I shall see. We shall be glad to welcome
you."
"I hope you will see many yet; but I am obliged to return to town.
Thank you all the same."
Coldly courteous still! Dr. Davenal, who would not wait, as Mark was
out, again offered his hand in parting.
"Some estrangement has come between us which I do not understand, Mr.
Oswald Cray. Remember what I say, should this be the last time we
speak together, that it is you who have to answer for it, not I."
"One word, Dr. Davenal," for the doctor was turning away to regain his
carriage. "Believe at least this much, that none can regret the
estrangement more than I regret it."
"Is it explainable?"
"Not by me," replied Oswald, somewhat of his old hauteur coming upon
him. He honestly believed in his heart that Dr. Davenal, in saying
these few words, was but acting a part.
"Fare you well," said the doctor as he went out.
"Farewell," repeated Oswald. And they were the last words ever spoken
between them.
It was a social family dinner that evening at Dr. Davenal's, and for
some of its partakers a right merry one. Mark Cray and his wife were
merry as heart could wish, the two boys boisterously so, Miss Davenal
gracious. Sara was quiet, the doctor was ill, and a gentleman whom the
doctor had invited after Oswald Cray declined, was grieving over the
alteration so conspicuously visible in Dr. Davenal.
This was the Rev. John Stephenson. He was at Hallingham on business,
had called that afternoon on Dr. Davenal, and the doctor had pressed
him to stay dinner.
When the cloth was removed, and Mr. Stephenson had said grace, and
Dick and Leo were up to their eyes in nuts and oranges, Mark Cray
stood in his place and made a natty little speech. Mark was fond of
making speeches they were a great deal more to his taste than surgical
operations. His present effort lasted five minutes, and wound up with
wishing the doctor many happy returns of the day.
"Hurrah!" shouted Dick. "Uncle Richard, I hope you'll have a hundred
birthdays yet!"
"And plenty of good things for you to eat as they come round, eh,
Dick?" rejoined the doctor with a smile.
"Oh, of course," cried Dick, his eyes sparkling. "It always does come
in the Christmas holidays, you know."
The doctor slightly rose from his chair, leaning with both hands on
the table. His manner was subdued, his voice inexpressibly gentle and
loving.
"My dear friends, I thank you for your kindness; I thank you from my
very heart. I am not well, and you must accept these few words in
answer to Mark's more elaborate speech. It may be the last time I
shall be here to receive your good wishes or to thank you for
them. May God bless you!"--and he raised his hands slowly and
solemnly--"May God bless and love you all when I shall be gone!"
The words took them utterly by surprise. Sara bent her head, and
pressed her hands upon her bosom as if to press down the sudden sobs
that seemed as if they would choke her; Dick and Leo stared; Miss
Bettina complacently nodded her acknowledgments, she knew not why, for
she had failed to hear; and Caroline looked up in wonder. Mark Cray
was the first to speak.
"Do you feel ill, sir?"
"Not particularly; not much more so than I have felt lately. I don't
think I am very well, Mark."
"You are overworked, sir. You must take some rest"
"Rest may be nearer for me than we think, Mark."
"O papa, don't!" wailed Sara. "Don't speak so, unless you would break
my heart!"
Her emotion had become uncontrollable, and the anguish had spoken out.
Never until that moment had the prospect of losing her father been
brought palpably before Sara, and it was more than she well knew how
to bear. In spite of her natural reticence of feeling, of the presence
of a stranger, she quite shook with her hysterical sobs.
Miss Davenal was frightened, and somewhat indignant: she bent her head
forward. "What on earth's the matter with Sara?"
"Hush, Aunt Bettina," called out Mrs. Cray. "Don't scold her. Uncle
Richard has been talking gloomily. He says he is ill."
"Ill! of course he is ill," retorted Miss Bettina, who had contrived
to hear. "He won't eat. He is out and about with his patients from
morning till night, and then comes in too tired to eat anything. He
has not swallowed a couple of ounces of meat all the last week. What
can he expect but to be ill? But there's no cause for Sara to burst
into a violent fit of crying over it. Will you be so kind as to excuse
it, sir?" she added, in her stately courtesy, to the clergyman who was
sitting at her right hand.
He bowed. A man who has known long-continued adversity can feel for
sorrow, and his heart was aching for the grief of the child, and for
the serious change he saw in the father, his benefactor. Mark turned
to Miss Davenal.
"It is just what I say, Miss Bettina, that the doctor is overworked.
He wants a week or two's rest."
"And what are you good for if you can't contrive that he should have
it?" was her answer. "I think you might see his patients for him."
"So I could," answered Mark. "Only he won't let me."
Sara's emotion was subsiding: she sat very still now, her head a
little bent, as if ashamed of having betrayed it; the tears dried upon
her cheeks, but an uncontrollable sob broke from her now and then. Dr.
Davenal had taken her hand under the table, for she sat next to him,
and was holding it in his.
"You foolish child!" he fondly whispered.
"Papa, if--if anything were to happen to you--if you were to go and
leave me here alone, I should die," was the answer, uttered
passionately.
"Hush, hush! My darling, you and I are alike in the hands of a loving
God."
She laid her fingers again upon her bosom. How violently it was
beating, how difficult it was to still its throbs of pain, she alone
knew.
"I met that gentleman this afternoon, the connection of Lady Oswald's
whom I saw for the first time the day of the funeral," spoke up the
clergyman, breaking the silence which had fallen upon the room. "Mr.
Oswald Cray."
"I met him, too," said the doctor. "It was at your house, Mark. I
asked him to come here today, but he declined."
"He is gone back to town, I think," said Mark.
"He said he was going."
"Did you ask him to dine here, Uncle Richard?" cried Leo.
"I did, my boy."
"And wouldn't he!" rejoined Mark.
"No, he wouldn't. And, mind, I think he _wouldn't_; although Ac
declined upon the plea of having to get back to town."
"My! what a stupid duff he was!" exclaimed Richard. "Did he know there
was going to be a turkey and plum-pudding?"
"I didn't tell him that, Dick. My impression is, that he never means
to enter our house again," the doctor added in a low tone to his
daughter.
"But why?" exclaimed Caroline, who sat on the other side the doctor,
and caught the words. "There must be something extraordinary at the
bottom of all this."
"Never mind going into it now, Carine," whispered the doctor. "His
grievance is connected with Lady Oswald's will, but we need not say so
before Mr. Stephenson."
Sara looked up hastily, impulsive words rising to her lips; but she
recollected herself, and bent her head again in silence. Not even to
her father dared she to say that his conclusion was a mistaken one.
"Uncle Richard, now that I look at you, it does appear to me that you
are changed for the worse," remarked Mrs. Cray. "You must nurse
yourself, as Mark says. Hallingham would not understand your being
ill, you know."
"True," laughed the doctor.
Caroline Cray, seeing her uncle daily, or nearly so, had not perceived
the great change which had been gradually going on in him. But to Mr.
Stephenson, who had not met him since the time of Lady Oswald's death,
it was all too palpable; as it had been that day to Oswald Cray.
"We must not forget the captain today, doctor," spoke up Mark. "Have
you heard from him again?"
"O yes."
"How does he like his Maltese quarters?"
"I am not sure that he has said. It is not of much consequence whether
he liked them or not. The regiment was ordered on to India."
"To India!"
"Yes." It was impossible not to note the sad tone in which the
monosyllable was spoken. Dr. Davenal had begun to know that he and his
son should never again meet on earth: the son whom he so loved!
Somehow, what with one thing and another, that birthday evening was a
sadder one than they had been accustomed to spend. Mark Cray, as he
walked home with his wife afterwards, remarked that it was "slow." But
nobody dreamt of anything like fear for the doctor, save his daughter
and the Reverend Mr. Stephenson.
"I can never be sufficiently grateful to you, sir," murmured the
clergyman, as he was leaving. "Neither can my brother. You have done
for us what I believe no other man living would have done. May Heaven
reward you, and restore you to health and strength!"
"I did but my duty," answered the doctor. "The money belonged to you,
not to me. I am only glad there were no vexatious legal obstacles
brought up to obstruct the transfer. I shall always be glad to see
you, remember, when you come to Hallingham."
Mr. Stephenson thanked him. But as he went out, the impression was
strong upon his mind that the doctor himself would not long be in
Hallingham.
And Sara? What must it have been for her! Her mind was one chaos of
tumultuous emotion. She seemed to have accepted the fear as a
certainty, to have been obliged to accept it. Oh, what would save
him?--could not the whole faculty restore _his_ precious life? She
passed another night of anguish, like unto the one she had passed
nearly two months before, after parting with Oswald Cray in the Abbey
graveyard--like it, but more apprehensively painful; and she wondered
how she got through it.
With the morning, things did not wear so intensely gloomy an aspect.
The broad daylight, the avocations and bustle of daily life, are an
antidote to gloom, and the worst prospect loses some of its darkness
then. Sara tried to reason with herself that he could not have become
so ill on a sudden as to be past recovery, she tried to say that it
was foolish even to think it.
But her mind could not be at rest, her state of suspense was
intolerable, and before entering the breakfast-room she knocked at her
father's study-door, and entered. Dr. Davenal was closing the Bible.
"What is it, my dear?"
"O papa"--and the words came forth with a burst of pent-up
anguish--"I cannot live in this suspense. What did you mean last
night? What is it that is the matter with you?"
"I scarcely know, Sara. Only that I feel ill."
"But--you--cannot--be going to die?"
"Hush, my child! You must not agitate yourself in this way. Die? Well,
no, I hope not," he added, quite in a joking manner. "I feel ten per
cent better this morning than I did yesterday."
"Do you!" she eagerly cried. "But--what you said last night?----"
"Last night I felt gloomy--oppressed. Serious thoughts do intrude
themselves sometimes on one's birthday. And I was really ill
yesterday. I feel quite a different man today."
Her fears were growing wonderfully calmer. "You are sure, papa?"
"Sure of what? That I am better?--I am sure I feel so. I shall be all
right, child, I hope."
"Won't you have advice, papa?" she imploringly said.
"Advice? That's a compliment to myself, young lady. Hallingham would
tell you that there's no advice better than Dr. Davenal's own."
"But, papa--I mean different advice. I thought of the clever London
doctors. You must have them down to see you."
"Some of the clever London doctors would be glad of the countryman
Richard Davenal's advice. Seriously speaking, my dear, though I say it
in all modesty, I don't believe there's a man in Europe more skilful
than myself."
"But they might suggest remedies that you would not think of. O papa!
if there's a necessity, do summon them."
"Be assured of one thing, Sara, and set your mind at rest. Should the
necessity arise, I will not fail to seek any one or anything that I
think may help me. My life has not of late been a happy one, but I am
not quite tired of it; I wish I may live long, not only for your sake,
but for--for other interests. There's a double necessity for it now."
"And you will not go out today, papa?"
"Today I must. I have not made arrangements to the contrary. But I do
mean to give myself a rest, perhaps beginning with tomorrow. I feel a
great deal better today--quite another man."
How the words lightened her heart! Dr. Davenal really did feel much
better, and the saddened spirit, the almost ominous feeling, which had
clung to him the night before, had vanished. But he spoke more lightly
of his illness than he would have done had he not seen how it was
affecting her.
Dick came drumming at the door, and then pushed it open with a bang.
"Breakfast's waiting, Uncle Richard. And Aunt Bett---- Why! are you
there?" broke off the young gentleman as his eyes fell upon Sara. "I'm
afraid you'll catch it. Aunt Bett thinks you are not down, and it's
ten minutes past eight."
"Are you ready for school, Dick?" asked his uncle. "Elated at the
prospect of returning?"
Dick pulled a long face. The two boys were going back that day. A sore
trial to Dick, who it must be confessed, had been born with an innate
antipathy to books.
"You'll have us home at Easter, Uncle Richard?" he pleaded in a
piteous tone.
"Not if I know it, Dick. Holidays twice a-year were thought quite
enough in my schooldays, and I see no reason for their not being
thought enough now."
"Half the boys go home at Easter--and stop a fortnight: bemoaned Dick.
"Very likely. If half the boys have friends who prefer play to work
for them, I'm only glad the other half set a better example. Dicky,
boy, you'll enjoy your Midsummer holidays all the more keenly for
having none at Easter."
The doctor caught hold of the boy and wound his arm affectionately
round him as they proceeded across the hall to the breakfast-room.
Miss Davenal greeted Sara with one of her severest aspects, but before
she could begin her lecture, Mark Cray had burst in upon them.
"Have you heard the news?" he exclaimed, in a state of excitement
never yet witnessed in easy Mark Cray. "Doctor, have you had letters
yet?"
"What news? What letters?" asked the doctor.
"Caroline has got her money."
"Caroline got her money?" repeated Dr. Davenal, understanding no
better than the rest did.
"The Chancery case is decided," explained Mark. "Judgment was given
yesterday, and it is in their favour. She'll get the money directly
now."
"How do you know this, Mark?"
"It is in the evening papers--reported in full. I call for my letters
sometimes if I am passing the post-office, and I did so this morning
and got this paper. White, the lawyer, sent it, I expect, and we shall
no doubt hear by this evening's post."
"Well, Mark, I am very glad. Justice lay on Caroline's side; therefore
it is right that she should have it. You must settle it upon her as
soon as you touch the money."
"Oh, of course," said Mark.