There is nothing more usual than to say that could we but know the life
history of the first half-dozen persons we meet with on any road, we
should find tragic details and unexpected lights and shadows far beyond
the reach of fiction, which no doubt is occasionally true: though
probably the first half-dozen would be found to gasp, like the
knife-grinder: “Story? Lord bless you! I have none to tell, sir.” This,
to be sure, would be no argument; for our histories are not frequently
unknown to, or, at least, unappreciated by ourselves, and the common
human sense is against any accumulation of wonders in a small space. I
am almost ashamed to say that the two people who inhabited one above the
other two separate floors of my house in Bloomsbury, had a certain
singularity and unusualness in their lives, that they were not as other
men or women are; or, to speak more clearly, that being as other men and
women are, the circumstances of their lives created round them an
atmosphere which was not exactly that of common day. When Dr. Roland
recounted to Miss Bethune the story of Mr. Mannering, that lady shut her
lips tight in the partial shadow of the screen, to restrain the almost
irrepressible murmurs of a revelation equally out of the common which
belonged to herself. That is, she was tempted to utter aloud what she
said in her soul, “Oh, but that is like me!” “Oh, but I would never have
done that!"--comparing the secret in her own life, which nobody in this
place suspected, with the secret in her neighbour’s, which, at least to
some few persons, was known.
Poor Mr. Mannering! there was a strange kind of superiority and secret
satisfaction in pitying his fate, in learning all the particulars of it,
in assuring herself that Dora was quite ignorant, and nobody in the
house had the least suspicion, while at the same time secure in the
consciousness that she herself was wrapt in impenetrable darkness, and
that not even this gossip of a doctor could divine her. There is an
elation in knowing that you too have a story, that your own experiences
are still more profound than those of the others whom you are called
upon to pity and wonder over, that did they but know!--which, perhaps,
is not like the more ordinary elation of conscious superiority, but yet
has its sweetness. There was a certain dignity swelling in Miss
Bethune’s figure as she rose to shake hands with the doctor, as if she
had wrapped a tragic mantle round her, as if she dismissed him like a
queen on the edge of ground too sacred to be trodden by any vulgar feet.
He was conscious of it vaguely, though not of what it was. He gave her a
very keen glance in the shadow of that screen: a keener observer than
Dr. Roland was not easily to be met with,--but then his observations
were generally turned in one particular way, and the phenomena which he
glimpsed on this occasion did not come within the special field of his
inquiries. He perceived them, but he could not classify them, in the
scientific narrowness of his gaze.
Miss Bethune waited until the well-known sound of the closing of Dr.
Roland’s door downstairs met her ear; and then she rang violently,
eagerly for her maid. What an evening this was, among all the quiet
evenings on which nothing happened,--an evening full of incidents, of
mysteries, and disclosures! The sound of the bell was such that the
person summoned came hurrying from her room, well aware that there must
be something to be told, and already breathless with interest. She found
her mistress walking up and down the room, the screen discarded, the fan
thrown down, the very shade on the lamp pushed up, so that it had the
tipsy air of a hat placed on one side of the head. “Oh, Gilchrist!” Miss
Bethune cried.
Dr. Roland went, as he always went, briskly but deliberately downstairs.
If he had ever run up and down at any period of his life, taking two
steps at a time, as young men do, he did it no longer. He was a little
short-sighted, and wore a “pince-nez,” and was never sure that between
his natural eyes, with which he looked straight down at his feet, and
his artificial ones, which had a wider circle, he might not miss a step,
which accounted for the careful, yet rapid character of his movements.
The door which Miss Bethune waited to hear him close was exactly below
her own, and the room filled in Dr. Roland’s life the conjoint positions
of waiting-room, dining-room, and library. His consulting-room was
formed of the other half looking to the back, and shut off from this by
folding-doors and closely-drawn curtains. All the piles of _Illustrated
News_, _Graphic_, and other picture papers, along with various
well-thumbed pictorial volumes, the natural embellishments of the
waiting-room, were carefully cleared away; and the room, with Dr.
Roland’s chair drawn near a cheery blazing fire, his reading-lamp, his
book, and his evening paper on his table, looked comfortable enough. It
was quite an ordinary room in Bloomsbury, and he was quite an ordinary
man. Nothing remarkable (the reader will be glad to hear) had ever
happened to him. He had gone through the usual studies, he had knocked
about the world for a number of years, he had seen life and many
incidents in other people’s stories both at home and abroad. But nothing
particular had ever happened to himself. He had lived, but if he had
loved, nobody knew anything about that. He had settled in Bloomsbury
some four or five years before, and he had grown into a steady, not too
overwhelming practice. His specialty was the treatment of dyspepsia, and
other evils of a sedentary life; and his patients were chiefly men, the
men of offices and museums, among whom he had a great reputation. This
was his official character, not much of a family adviser, but strong to
rout the liver fiend and the demons of indigestion wherever encountered.
But in his private capacity Dr. Roland’s character was very remarkable
and his scientific enthusiasm great.
He was a sort of medical detective, working all for love, and nothing
for reward, without fee, and in many cases without even the high
pleasure of carrying out his views. He had the eye of a hawk for
anything wrong in the complexion or aspect of those who fell under his
observation. The very postman at the door, whom Dr. Roland had met two
or three times as he went out for his constitutional in the morning, had
been divined and cut open, as it were, by his lancet of a glance, and
saved from a bad illness by the peremptory directions given to him,
which the man had the sense (and the prudence, for it was near
Christmas) to obey. In that case the gratuity passed from doctor to
patient, not from patient to doctor, but was not perhaps less
satisfactory on that account. Then Dr. Roland would seize Jenny or Molly
by the shoulders when they timidly brought a message or a letter into
his room, look into the blue of their eyes for a moment, and order a
dose on the spot; a practice which made these innocent victims tremble
even to pass his door.
“Oh, granny, I can’t, I can’t take it up to the doctor,” they would say,
even when it was a telegram that had come: little selfish things, not
thinking what poor sick person might be sending for the doctor; nor how
good it was to be able to get a dose for nothing every time you wanted
it.
But most of the people whom he met were less easily manageable than the
postman and the landlady’s little granddaughters. Dr. Roland regarded
every one he saw from this same medical point of view; and had made up
his mind about Miss Bethune, and also about Mr. Mannering, before he had
been a week in the house. Unfortunately, he could do nothing to impress
his opinion upon them; but he kept his eyes very wide open, and took
notes, attending the moment when perhaps his opportunity might occur. As
for Dora, he had nothing but contempt for her from the first moment he
had seen her. Hers was a case of inveterate good health, and wholly
without interest. That girl, he declared to himself scornfully, would be
well anywhere. Bloomsbury had no effect upon her. She was neither anæmic
or dyspeptic, though the little things downstairs were both. But her
father was a different matter. Half a dozen playful demons were
skirmishing around that careful, temperate, well-living man; and Dr.
Roland took the greatest interest in their advances and withdrawals,
expecting the day when one or other would seize the patient and lay him
low. Miss Bethune, too, had her little band of assailants, who were
equally interesting to Dr. Roland, but not equally clear, since he was
as yet quite in the dark as to the moral side of the question in her
case.
He knew what would happen to these two, and calculated their chances
with great precision, taking into account all the circumstances that
might defer or accelerate the catastrophe. These observations interested
him like a play. It was a kind of second sight that he possessed, but
reaching much further than the vision of any Highland seer, who sees
the winding-sheet only when it is very near, mounting in a day or two
from the knees to the waist, and hence to the head. But Dr. Roland saw
its shadow long before it could have been visible to any person gifted
with the second sight. Sometimes he was wrong--he had acknowledged as
much to himself in one or two instances; but it was very seldom that
this occurred. Those who take a pessimistic view either of the body or
soul are bound to be right in many, if not in most cases, we are obliged
to allow.
But it was not with the design of hunting patients that Dr. Roland made
these investigations; his interest in the persons he saw around him was
purely scientific. It diverted him greatly, if such a word may be used,
to see how they met their particular dangers, whether they instinctively
avoided or rushed to encounter them, both which methods they constantly
employed in their unconsciousness. He liked to note the accidents (so
called) that came in to stave off or to hurry on the approaching
trouble. The persons to whom these occurred had often no knowledge of
them; but Dr. Roland noted everything and forgot nothing. He had a
wonderful memory as well as such excessively clear sight; and he carried
on, as circumstances permitted, a sort of oversight of the case, even if
it might be in somebody else’s hands. Sometimes his interest in these
outlying patients who were not his, interfered with the concentration of
his attention on those who were--who were chiefly, as has been said,
dyspeptics and the like, affording no exciting variety of symptoms to
his keen intellectual and professional curiosity. And these
peculiarities made him a very serviceable neighbour. He never objected
to be called in in haste, because he was the nearest doctor, or to give
a flying piece of advice to any one who might be attacked by sudden pain
or uneasiness; indeed, he might be said to like these unintentional
interferences with other people’s work, which afforded him increased
means of observation, and the privilege of launching a new prescription
at a patient’s head by way of experiment, or confidential counsel at the
professional brother whom he was thus accidentally called upon to aid.
On the particular evening which he occupied by telling Miss Bethune the
story of the Mannerings,--not without an object in so doing, for he had
a strong desire to put that lady herself under his microscope and find
out how certain things affected her,--he had scarcely got himself
comfortably established by his own fireside, put on a piece of wood to
make a blaze, felt for his cigar-case upon the mantelpiece, and taken up
his paper, when a knock at his door roused him in the midst of his
preparations for comfort. The doctor lifted his head quickly, and cocked
one fine ear like a dog, and with something of the thrill of listening
with which a dog responds to any sound. That he let the knock be
repeated was by no means to say that he had not heard the first time. A
knock at his door was something like a first statement of symptoms to
the doctor. He liked to understand and make certain what it meant.
“Come in,” he said quickly, after the second knock, which had a little
hurry and temerity in it after the tremulous sound of the first.
The door opened; and there appeared at it, flushed with fright and
alarm, yet pallid underneath the flush, the young and comely countenance
of Mrs. Hesketh, Dora’s friend on the attic floor.
“Oh!” Dr. Roland said, taking in this unexpected appearance, and all her
circumstances, physical and mental, at a glance. He had met her also
more than once at the door or on the stairs. He asked kindly what was
the little fool frightened about, as he rose up quickly and with
unconscious use and wont placed a chair in the best light, where he
should be able to read the simple little alphabet of her constitution
and thoughts.
“Oh, doctor, sir! I hope you don’t mind me coming to disturb you, though
I know as it’s late and past hours.”
“A doctor has no hours. Come in,” he said.
Then there was a pause. The agitated young face disappeared, leaving Dr.
Roland only a side view of her shoulder and figure in profile, and a
whispering ensued. “I cannot--I cannot! I ain’t fit,” in a hoarse tone,
and then the young woman’s eager pleading. “Oh, Alfred dear, for my
sake!”
“Come in, whoever it is,” said Dr. Roland, with authority. “A doctor has
no hours, but either people in the house have, and you mustn’t stay
outside.”
Then there was a little dragging on the part of the wife, a little
resistance on the part of the husband; and finally Mrs. Hesketh
appeared, more flushed than ever, grasping the sleeve of a rather
unwholesome-looking young man, very pink all over and moist, with
furtive eyes, and hair standing on end. He had a fluttered clandestine
look, as if afraid to be seen, as he came into the full light of the
lamp, and looked suspiciously around him, as if to find out whether
anything dangerous was there.
“It is my ’usband, sir,” said Mrs. Hesketh. “It’s Alfred. He’s been off
his food and off his sleep for I don’t know how long, and I’m not happy
about him. I thought perhaps you might give him a something that would
put him all straight.”
“Off his food and off his sleep? Perhaps he hasn’t been off his drink
also?” said the doctor, giving a touch to the shade of the lamp.
“I knew,” said the young man, in the same partially hoarse voice, “as
that is what would be said.”
“And a gentleman like you ought to know better,” said the indignant
wife. “Drink is what he never touches, if it isn’t a ’alf pint to his
supper, and that only to please me.”
“Then it’s something else, and not drink,” said the doctor. “Sit down,
and let me have a look at you.” He took into his cool grasp a somewhat
tremulous damp hand, which had been hanging down by the patient’s side,
limp yet agitated, like a thing he had no use for. “Tell me something
about him,” said Dr. Roland. “In a shop? Baxter’s?--yes, I know the
place. What you call shopman,--no, assistant,--young gentleman at the
counter?”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Hesketh, with pride; “book-keeper, sir--sits up in
his desk in the middle of the costume department, and----”
“Ah, I see,” said the doctor quickly. He gave the limp wrist, in which
the pulse had suddenly given a great jump, a grip with his cool hand.
“Control yourself,” he said quietly. “Nerves all in a whirl, system
breaking down--can you take a holiday?”
“Oh, yes,” said the young man in a sort of bravado, “of course I can
take a holiday! and an express ticket for the workhouse after it. How
are we to live if I go taking holidays? We can’t afford no holidays,” he
said in his gruff voice.
“There are worse places than the workhouse,” said the doctor, with
meaning. “Take this, and to-morrow I’ll give you a note to send to your
master. The first thing you want is a good night’s sleep.”
“Oh, that is the truth, however you know it,” cried Mrs. Hesketh. “He
hasn’t had a night’s sleep, nor me neither, not for a month back.”
“I’ll see that he has one to-night,” said Dr. Roland, drawing back the
curtain of his surgery and opening the folding-doors.
“I won’t take no opiates, doctor,” said the young man, with dumb
defiance in his sleepy eyes.
“You won’t take any opiates? And why, if I may ask?” the doctor said,
selecting a bottle from the shelf.
“Not a drop of your nasty sleepy stuff, that makes fellows dream and
talk nonsense in their sleep--oh, not for me!”
“You are afraid, then, of talking nonsense in your sleep? We must get
rid of the nonsense, not of the sleep,” said the doctor. “I don’t say
that this is an opiate, but you have got to swallow it, my fine fellow,
whether or not.”
“No,” said the young man, setting his lips firmly together.
“Drink!” cried Dr. Roland, fully roused. “Come, I’ll have no childish,
wry faces. Why, you’re a man--with a wife--and not a naughty boy!”
“It’s not my doing coming here. She brought me, and I’ll see her far
enough----”
“Hold your tongue you young ass, and take your physic! She’s a capital
woman, and has done exactly as she ought to have done. No nonsense, I
tell you! Sleep to-night, and then to-morrow you’ll go and set yourself
right with the shop.”
“Sir!” cried the young man, with a gasp. His pulse gave a jump under the
strong cool grip in which Dr. Roland had again taken it, and he fixed a
frightened imploring gaze upon the doctor’s face.
“Oh, doctor!” cried the poor wife, “there’s nothing to set right with
the shop. They think all the world of Alfred there.”
“They’ll think all the more of him,” said Dr. Roland, “after he has had
a good night’s sleep. There, take him off to bed; and at ten o’clock
to-morrow morning I expect to see him here.”
“Oh, doctor, is it anything bad? Oh, sir, can’t you make him all right?”
she cried, standing with clasped hands, listening to the hurried yet
wavering step with which her husband went upstairs.
“I’ll tell you to-morrow morning,” Dr. Roland said.
When the door was closed he went and sat down again by his fire; but the
calm of his mind, the pleasure of his cigar, the excitement of his
newspaper, had gone. Truth to tell, the excitement of this new question
pleased him more than all these things together. “Has he done it, or is
he only going to do it?” he asked himself. Could the thing be set right,
or could it never be set right? He sat there for perhaps an hour,
working out the question in both directions, considering the case in
every light. It was a long time since he had met with anything so
interesting. He only came to himself when he became conscious that the
fire was burning very low, and the chill of the night creeping into the
air. Then Dr. Roland rose again, compounded a drink for himself of a
different quality from that which he had given to his patient, and
selected out of his bookcase a yellow novel. But after a while he
pitched the book from him, and pushed away the glass, and resumed his
meditations. What was grog, and what was Gaboriau, in comparison with a
problem like this?