JUMP in, if you would ride with the doctor. You have no time to lose,
for the patient horse, thankful for the unusual blessing which he has
enjoyed in obtaining a good night's rest, stands early at the door this
rainy morning, and the worthy doctor himself is already in his seat, and
is hastily gathering up the reins, for there have been no less than six
rings at his bell within as many minutes, and immediate attendance is
requested in several different places.
It is not exactly the day one might select for a ride, for the storm is
a regular north-easter, and your hands and feet are benumbed with the
piercing cold wind, while you are drenched with the driving rain.
But the doctor is used to all this, and, unmindful of wind and rain, he
urges his faithful horse to his utmost speed, eager to reach the spot
where the most pressing duty calls. He has at least the satisfaction of
being welcome. Anxious eyes are watching for his well-known vehicle from
the window; the door is opened ere he puts his hand upon the lock, and
the heartfelt exclamation,
“Oh, doctor, I am so thankful you have come!” greets him as he enters.
Hastily the anxious father leads the way to the room where his
half-distracted wife is bending in agony over their first-born, a lovely
infant of some ten months, who is now in strong convulsions. The mother
clasps her hands, and raises her eyes in gratitude to heaven, as
the doctor enters,-he is her only earthly hope. Prompt and efficient
remedies are resorted to, and in an hour the restored little one is
sleeping tranquilly in his mother's arms.
The doctor departs amid a shower of blessings, and again urging his
horse to speed, reaches his second place of destination. It is a stately
mansion. A spruce waiter hastens to answer his ring, but the lady
herself meets him as he enters the hall.
“We have been expecting you anxiously, doctor. Mr. Palmer is quite ill,
this morning. Walk up, if you please.”
The doctor obeys, and is eagerly welcomed by his patient.
“Do exert your utmost skill to save me from a fever, doctor. The
symptoms are much the same which I experienced last year, previous to
that long siege with the typhoid. It distracts me to think of it. At
this particular juncture I should lose thousands by absence from my
business.”
The doctor's feelings are enlisted,--his feelings of humanity and
his feelings of self-interest, for doctors must live as well as other
people; and the thought of the round sum which would find its way to his
own purse, if he could but succeed in preventing the loss of thousands
to his patient, was by no means unpleasing.
The most careful examination of the symptoms is made, and well-chosen
prescriptions given. He is requested to call as often as possible
through the day, which he readily promises to do, although press of
business and a pouring rain render it somewhat difficult.
The result, however, will be favourable to his wishes. His second and
third call give him great encouragement, and on the second day after the
attack, the merchant returns to his counting-room exulting in the skill
of his physician.
But we must resume our ride. On, on goes the doctor; rain pouring, wind
blowing, mud splashing. Ever and anon he checks his horse's speed, at
his various posts of duty. High and low, rich and poor anxiously await
his coming. He may not shrink from the ghastly spectacle of human
suffering and death. Humanity, in its most loathsome forms, is presented
to him.
The nearest and dearest may turn away in grief and horror, but the
doctor blenches not.
Again we are digressing. The doctor's well-known tap is heard at
the door of a sick-room, where for many days he has been in constant
attendance. Noiselessly he is admitted. The young husband kneels at the
side of the bed where lies his dearest earthly treasure. The calm but
deeply-afflicted mother advances to the doctor, and whispers fearfully
low,
“There is a change. She sleeps. Is it--oh! can it be the sleep of
death?”
Quickly the physician is at the bedside, and anxiously bending over his
patient.
Another moment and he grasps the husband's hand, while the glad words
“She will live,” burst from his lips.
We may not picture forth their joy. On, on, we are riding with the
doctor. Once more we are at his own door. Hastily he enters, and takes
up the slate containing the list of calls during his absence. At half a
dozen places his presence is requested without delay.
A quick step is heard on the stairs, and his gentle wife hastens to
welcome him.
“I am so glad you have come; how wet you must be!”
The parlour door is thrown open. What a cheerful fire, and how inviting
look the dressing-gown and the nicely warmed slippers!
“Take off your wet clothes, dear; dinner will soon be ready,” urges the
wife.
“It is impossible, Mary. There are several places to visit yet. Nay,
never look so sad. Have not six years taught you what a doctor's wife
must expect?”
“I shall never feel easy when you are working so hard, Henry; but surely
you will take a cup of hot coffee; I have it all ready. It will delay
you but a moment.”
The doctor consents; and while the coffee is preparing, childish voices
are heard, and little feet come quickly through the hall.
“Papa has come home!” shouts a manly little fellow of four years, as
he almost drags his younger sister to the spot where he has heard his
father's voice.
The father's heart is gladdened by their innocent joy, as they cling
around him; but there is no time for delay. A kiss to each, one good
jump for the baby, the cup of coffee is hastily swallowed, the wife
receives her embrace with tearful eyes, and as the doctor springs
quickly into his chaise, and wheels around the corner, she sighs deeply
as she looks at the dressing-gown and slippers, and thinks of the
favourite dish which she had prepared for dinner; and now it may be
night before he comes again. But she becomes more cheerful as she
remembers that a less busy season will come, and then they will enjoy
the recompense of this hard labour.
The day wears away, and at length comes the happy hour when gown and
slippers may be brought into requisition. The storm still rages without,
but there is quiet happiness within. The babies are sleeping, and father
and mother are in that snug little parlour, with its bright light and
cheerful fire. The husband is not too weary to read aloud, and the wife
listens, while her hands are busied with woman's never-ending work.
But their happiness is of short duration. A loud ring at the bell.
“Patient in the office, sir,” announces the attendant.
The doctor utters a half-impatient exclamation; but the wife expresses
only thankfulness that it is an office patient.
“Fine night for a sick person to come out!” muttered the doctor, as he
unwillingly lays down his book, and rises from the comfortable lounge.
But he is himself again by the time his hand is on the door of the
office, and it is with real interest that he greets his patient.
“Tooth to be extracted? Sit down, sir. Here, Biddy, bring water and a
brighter lamp. Have courage, sir; one moment will end it.”
The hall door closes on the relieved sufferer, and the doctor throws
himself again on the lounge, and smilingly puts the bright half dollar
in his pocket.
“That was not so bad, after all, Mary. I like to make fifty cents in
that way.”
“Cruel creature! Do not mention it.”
“Cruel! The poor man blessed me in his heart. Did I not relieve him from
the most intense suffering?”
“Well, never mind. I hope there will be no more calls to-night.”
“So do I. Where is the book? I will read again.” No more interruptions.
Another hour, and all, are sleeping quietly.
Midnight has passed, when the sound of the bell falls on the doctor's
wakeful ear. As quickly as possible he answers it in person, but another
peal is heard ere he reaches the door.
A gentleman to whose family he has frequently been called, appears.
“Oh! doctor, lose not a moment; my little Willie is dying with the
croup!”
There is no resisting this appeal. The still wet overcoat and boots
are drawn on; medicine case hastily seized, and the doctor rushes forth
again into the storm.
Pity for his faithful horse induces him to traverse the distance on
foot, and a rapid walk of half a mile brings him to the house.
It was no needless alarm. The attack was a severe one, and all his skill
was required to save the life of the little one. It was daylight ere he
could leave him with safety. Then, as he was about departing for his own
home, an express messenger arrived to entreat him to go immediately to
another place nearly a mile in an opposite direction.
Breakfast was over ere he reached his own house. His thoughtful wife
suggested a nap; but a glance at the already well-filled slate showed
this to be out of the question. A hasty toilet, and still hastier
breakfast, and the doctor is again seated in his chaise, going on his
accustomed rounds; but we will not now accompany him.
Let us pass over two or three months, and invite ourselves to another
ride. One pleasant morning, when less pressed with business, he walks
leisurely from the house to the chaise, and gathering up the reins with
a remarkably thoughtful air, rides slowly down the street.
But few patients are on his list, and these are first attended to.
The doctor then pauses for consideration. He has set apart this day
for _collecting_. Past experience has taught him that the task is by no
means an agreeable one. It is necessary, however--absolutely so--for,
as we have said before, doctors must live as well as other people; their
house-rent must be paid, food and clothing must be supplied.
A moment only pauses the doctor, and then we are again moving onward.
A short ride brings us to the door of a pleasantly-situated house. We
remember it well. It is where the little one lay in fits when we last
rode out with the doctor. We recall the scene: the convulsed countenance
of the child; the despair of the parents, and the happiness which
succeeded when their beloved one was restored to them.
Surely they will now welcome the doctor. Thankfully will they pay the
paltry sum he claims as a recompense for his services. We are more
confident than the doctor. Experience is a sure teacher. The door does
not now fly open at his approach. He gives his name to the girl who
answers the bell, and in due time the lady of the house appears.
“Ah! doctor, how do you do? You are quite a stranger! Delightful
weather,” &c.
The doctor replies politely, and inquires if her husband is in.
“Yes, he is in; but I regret to say he is exceedingly engaged this
morning. His business is frequently of a nature which cannot suffer
interruption. He would have been pleased to have seen you.”
The doctor's pocket-book is produced, and the neatly drawn bill is
presented.
“If convenient to Mr. Lawton, the amount would be acceptable.”
“I will hand it to him when he is at leisure. He will attend to it, no
doubt.”
The doctor sighs involuntarily as he recalls similar indefinite
promises; but it is impossible to insist upon interrupting important
business. He ventures another remark, implying that prompt payment would
oblige him; bows, and retires.
On, on goes the faithful horse. Where is to be our next stopping-place?
At the wealthy merchant's, who owed so much to the doctor's skill some
two months since. Even the doctor feels confidence here. Thousands saved
by the prevention of that fever. Thirty dollars is not to be thought of
in comparison.
All is favourable. Mr. Palmer is at home, and receives his visiter in a
cordial manner. Compliments are passed. Now for the bill.
“Our little account, Mr. Palmer.”
“Ah! I recollect; I am a trifle in your debt. Let us see: thirty
dollars! So much? I had forgotten that we had needed medical advice,
excepting in my slight indisposition a few weeks since.”
Slight indisposition! What a memory some people are blessed with!
The doctor smothers his rising indignation.
“Eight visits, Mr. Palmer, and at such a distance. You will find the
charge a moderate one.”
“Oh! very well; I dare say it is all right. I am sorry I have not the
money for you to-day, doctor. Very tight just at present; you know how
it is with men of business.”
“It would be a great accommodation if I could have it at once.”
“Impossible, doctor! I wish I could oblige you. In a week, or fortnight,
at the farthest, I will call at your office.”
A week or fortnight! The disappointed doctor once more seats himself in
his chaise, and urges his horse to speed. He is growing desperate now,
and is eager to reach his next place of destination. Suddenly he checks
the horse. A gentleman is passing whom he recognises as the young
husband whose idolized wife has so lately been snatched from the borders
of the grave.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Wilton; I was about calling at your house.”
“Pray, do so, doctor; Mrs. Wilton will be pleased to see you.”
“Thank you; but my call was on business, to-day. I believe I must
trouble you with my bill for attendance during your wife's illness.”
“Ah! yes; I recollect. Have you it with you? Fifty dollars! Impossible!
Why, she was not ill above three weeks.”
“Very true; but think of the urgency of the case. Three or four calls
during twenty-four hours were necessary, and two whole nights I passed
at her bedside.”
“And yet the charge appears to me enormous. Call it forty, and I will
hand you the amount at once.”
The doctor hesitates. “I cannot afford to lose ten dollars, which is
justly my due, Mr. Wilton.”
“Suit yourself, doctor. Take forty, and receipt the bill, or stick to
your first charge, and wait till I am ready to pay it. Fifty dollars is
no trifle, I can tell you.”
And this is the man whose life might have been a blank but for the
doctor's skill!
Again we are travelling onward. The unpaid bill is left in Mr. Wilton's
hand, and yet the doctor half regrets that he had not submitted to the
imposition. Money is greatly needed just now, and there seems little
prospect of getting any.
Again and again the horse is stopped at some well-known post. A poor
welcome has the doctor to-day. Some bills are collected, but their
amount is discouragingly small. Everybody appears to feel astonishingly
healthy, and have almost forgotten that they ever had occasion for a
physician. There is one consolation, however: sickness will come again,
and then, perhaps, the unpaid bill may be recollected. Homeward goes
the doctor. He is naturally of a cheerful disposition; but now he is
seriously threatened with a fit of the blues. A list of calls upon his
slate has little effect to raise his spirits. “All work and no pay,” he
mutters to himself, as he puts on his dressing-gown and slippers; and,
throwing himself upon the lounge, turns a deaf ear to the little ones,
while he indulges in a revery as to the best mode of paying the doctor.