"MY DEAR ARNOLD,
"Come down to Lefford without delay if you can: I want to see you
particularly. I am in a peck of trouble.
"Ever your friend,
"RICHARD TAMLYN."
The above letter reached Dr. Knox in London one morning in April. He
made it right with the authorities to whom he was subject, and reached
Lefford the same afternoon.
Leaving his bag at the station, he went straight to Mr. Tamlyn's house;
every other person he met halting to shake hands with him. Entering the
iron gates, he looked up at the windows, but saw no one. The sun shone
on the pillared portico, the drawing-room blinds beside it were down.
Dr. Knox crossed the flagged courtyard, and passed off to enter by the
route most familiar to him, the surgery, trodden by him so often in the
days not long gone by. Mr. Dockett stood behind the counter, compounding
medicines, with his coat-cuffs and wristbands turned up.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed the young gentleman, dropping a bottle in his
astonishment as he stared at Dr. Knox. "You are about the last person I
should have expected to see, sir."
By which remark the doctor found that Mr. Tamlyn had not taken his
apprentice into his confidence. "Are you all well here?" he asked,
shaking hands.
"All as jolly as circumstances will let us be," said Mr. Dockett. "Young
Bertie has taken a turn for the worse."
"Has he? I am sorry to hear that. Is Mr. Tamlyn at home? If so, I'll in
and see him."
"Oh, he's at home," was the answer. "He has hardly stirred out-of-doors
for a week, and Shuttleworth says he's done to death with the work."
Going in as readily as though he had not left the house for a day, Dr.
Knox found Mr. Tamlyn in the dining-room: the pretty room that looked
to the garden and the fountain. He was sitting by the fire, his hand
rumpling his grey hair: a sure sign that he was in some bother or
tribulation. In the not quite four months that had passed since Dr. Knox
left him, he had changed considerably: his hair was greyer, his face
thinner.
"Is it you, Arnold? I am glad. I thought you'd come if you could."
Dr. Knox drew a chair near the fire, and sat down. "Your letter gave me
concern," he said. "And what do you mean by talking about a peck of
trouble?"
"A peck of trouble!" echoed Mr. Tamlyn. "I might have said a bushel. I
might have said a ton. There's trouble on all sides, Arnold."
"Can I help you out of it in any way?"
"With some of it, I hope you can: it's why I sent for you. But not with
all: not with the worst. Bertie's dying, Arnold."
"I hope not!"
"As truly as that we are here talking to one another, I believe him to
be literally dying," repeated the surgeon, solemnly, his eyes filling
and his voice quivering with pain. "He has dropped asleep, and Bessy
sent me out of the room: my sighs wake him, she says. I can't help
sighing, Arnold: and sometimes the sigh ends with a groan, and I can't
help that."
Dr. Knox didn't see his way clear to making much answer just here.
"I've detected the change in him for a month past; in my inward heart I
felt sure he could not live. Do you know what your father used to say,
Arnold? He always said that if Bertie lived over his sixteenth or
seventeenth year, he'd do; but the battle would be just about that time.
Heaven knows, I attached no importance to the opinion: I have hardly
thought of it: but he was right, you see. Bertie would be seventeen next
July, if he were to live."
"I'm sure I am very grieved to hear this--and to see your sorrow," spoke
Arnold.
"He is _so_ changed!" resumed Mr. Tamlyn, in a low voice. "You remember
how irritable he was, poor fellow?--well, all that has gone, and he is
like an angel. So afraid of giving trouble; so humble and considerate to
every one! It was this change that first alarmed me."
"When did it come on?"
"Oh, weeks ago. Long before there was much change for the worse
to be _seen_ in him. Only this morning he held my hand, poor lad,
and--and----" Mr. Tamlyn faltered, coughed, and then went on again more
bravely. "He held my hand between his, Arnold, and said he thought God
had forgiven him, and how happy it would all be when we met in heaven.
For a long while now not a day has passed but he has asked us to
forgive him for his wicked tempers--that's his word for it, wicked--the
servants, and all."
"Is he in much pain?"
"Not much now. He has been in a great deal at times. But it made no
difference, pain or no pain, to his sweetness of temper. He will lie
resigned and quiet, the drops pouring down his face with the agony,
never an impatient word escaping him. One day I heard him tell Bessy
that angels were around him, helping him to bear it. We may be sure,
Arnold, when so extraordinary a change as that takes place in the
temperament, the close of life is not far off."
"Very true--as an ordinary rule," acquiesced Dr. Knox. "And now, how can
I help you in this trouble?"
"In this trouble?--not at all," returned Mr. Tamlyn, rousing himself,
and speaking energetically, as if he meant to put the thought behind
him. "_This_ trouble no earthly being can aid me in, Arnold; and I don't
think there's any one but yourself I'd speak to of it: it lies too deep,
you see; it wrings the soul. I could die of this trouble: I only fret at
the other."
"And what is the other?"
"Shuttleworth won't stay."
"Won't he!"
"Shuttleworth says the kind of practice is not what he has been
accustomed to, and the work's too hard, and he does not care how soon he
leaves it. And yet Dockett has come on surprisingly, and takes his share
now. The fact is, Arnold, Shuttleworth is just as lazy as he can hang
together: he'd like to treat a dozen rose-water patients a-day, and go
through life easily. My belief is, he means to do it."
"But that will scarcely bring grist to his mill, will it?" cried Dr.
Knox.
"His mill doesn't want grist; there's the worst of it," said Tamlyn.
"The man was not badly off when he came here: but since then his only
brother must go and die, and Shuttleworth has come into all his money.
A thousand a-year, if it's a penny."
"Then, I certainly don't wonder at his wanting to give up the practice,"
returned the doctor, with a smile.
"That's not all," grumbled old Tamlyn. "He wants to take away Bessy."
"To take away Bessy!"
"The two have determined to make themselves into one, I believe. Bessy
only hesitated because of leaving poor Bertie. That impediment will not
be in her way long."
He sighed as he spoke. Dr. Knox did not yet see what he was wanted for:
and asked again.
"I've been leading up to it," said Mr. Tamlyn. "You must come back to
me, Arnold."
"On the same terms as before?" inquired the doctor, after a pause.
"Nonsense. You'd say 'No,' off-hand, if I proposed _them_. In
Shuttleworth's place."
"Of course, Mr. Tamlyn, I could not come--I would not come unless it
were made worth my while. If it were, I should like it of all things."
"Yes, just so; that's what I mean. Don't you like your post in London?"
"I like it very well, indeed. And I have had no doubt that it will lead
to something better. But, if I saw a fair prospect before me here, I
should prefer to come back to Lefford."
"_That_ shall be made fair enough. Things have changed with me, Arnold:
and I shouldn't wonder but you will some time, perhaps not very far
distant, have all my practice in your own hands. I feel to be getting
old: spirits and health are alike broken."
"Nay, not old yet, Mr. Tamlyn. You may wait a good twenty years for
that."
"Well, well, we'll talk further at another interview. My mind's at rest
now, and that's a great thing. If you had refused, Arnold, I should have
sold my practice for an old song, and gone clean away: I never could
have stood being associated with another stranger. You are going up
home, I conclude. Will you come in this evening?"
"Very well," said Dr. Knox, rising. "Can I go up and see Bertie?"
"Not now; I'd not have him awakened for the world; and I assure you the
turning of a straw seems to do it. You shall see him this evening: he is
always awake and restless then."
Calling for his bag at the station, Dr. Knox went on to Rose Villa. They
were at tea. The children rose up with a shout: his step-mother looked
as though she could not believe her eyesight.
"Why, Arnold! Have you come home to stay?"
"Only for a day or two," he answered. "I thought I should surprise you,
but I had not time to write."
Shaking hands with her, kissing the children, he turned to some one
else, who was seated at the tea-table and had not stirred. His hand was
already out, when she turned her head, and he drew back his hand and
himself together.
"Miss Mack, my new governess," spoke Mrs. Knox.
"I beg your pardon," said Dr. Knox to Miss Mack, who turned out to be
a young person in green, with stout legs and slippers down at heel. "I
thought it was Miss Carey," he added to his step-mother. "Where is Miss
Carey?"
Which of the company, Miss Mack excepted, talked the fastest, and which
the loudest, could not have been decided though a thousand-pound wager
rested on it. It was a dreadful tale to tell. Janet Carey had turned out
to be a thief; Janet Carey had gone out of her mind nearly with fever
and fear when she knew she was to be taken to prison and tried: tried
for stealing the money; and Janet's aunt had come down and carried her
away out of the reach of the policemen. Dr. Knox gazed and listened, and
felt his blood turning cold with righteous horror.
"Be silent," he sternly said. "There must have been some strange
mistake. Miss Carey was good and upright as the day."
"She stole my fifty pounds," said Mrs. Knox.
"_What?_"
"She stole my fifty-pound note. It was the one you sent me, Arnold."
His face reddened a little. "That note? Well, I do not know the
circumstances that led you to accuse Miss Carey; but I know they were
mistaken ones. I will answer for Janet Carey with my life."
"She took that note; it could not have gone in any other manner,"
steadily persisted Mrs. Knox. "You'll say so yourself, Arnold, when you
know all. The commotion it has caused in the place, and the worry it has
caused me are beyond everything. Every day some tradesman or other comes
here to ask whether the money has been replaced--for of course they know
I can't pay them under such a loss, until it is; and I must say they
have behaved very well. I never liked Janet Carey. Deceitful minx!"
With so many talking together, Dr. Knox did not gather a very clear
account of the details. Mrs. Knox mixed up surmises with facts in a
manner to render the whole incomprehensible. He said no more then.
Later, Mrs. Knox saw that he was preparing to go out. She resented it.
"I think, Arnold, you might have passed this one evening at home: I want
to have a talk with you about money matters. What I am to do is more
than I know, unless Janet Carey or her friends can be made to return the
money."
"I am going down to Tamlyn's, to see Bertie."
Dr. Knox let himself out at the street-door, and was walking down the
garden-path, when he found somebody come flying past. It was Sally the
housemaid, on her way to open the gate for him. Such an act of attention
was unusual and quite unnecessary; the doctor thanked her, but told her
she need not have taken the trouble.
"I--I thought I'd like to ask you, sir, how that--that poor Miss Carey
is," said Sally, in a whisper, as she held the gate back, and her breath
was so short as to hinder her words. "It was London she was took to,
sir; and, as you live in the same town, I've wondered whether you might
not have come across her."
"London is a large place," observed Dr. Knox. "I did not even know Miss
Carey was there."
"It was a dreadful thing, sir, poor young lady. Everybody so harsh, too,
over it. And I--I--I _can't_ believe but she was innocent."
"It is simply an insult on Miss Carey to suppose otherwise," said Dr.
Knox. "Are you well, Sally? What's the matter with your breath?"
"Oh, it's nothing but a stitch that takes me, thank you, sir," returned
Sally, as she shut the gate after him and flew back again.
But Dr. Knox saw it was no "stitch" that had stopped Sally's breath and
checked her utterance, but genuine agitation. It set him thinking.
* * * * *
No longer any sitting up for poor Bertie Tamlyn in this world! It was
about eight o'clock when Dr. Knox entered the sick-chamber. Bertie lay
in bed; his arms thrown outside the counterpane beside him, as though
they were too warm. The fire gave out its heat; two lamps were burning,
one on the mantelpiece, one on the drawers at the far end of the room.
Bertie had always liked a great deal of light, and he liked it still.
Miss Tamlyn met Dr. Knox at the door, and silently shook hands with him.
Bertie's wide-open eyes turned to look, and the doctor approached the
bed; but he halted for one imperceptible moment in his course. When Mr.
Tamlyn had said Bertie was dying, Arnold Knox had assumed it to mean,
not that he was actually dying at that present time, but that he would
not recover! But as he gazed at Bertie now in the bright light, he
saw something in the face that his experienced medical eye could not
mistake.
He took the wasted, fevered hand in his, and laid his soothing fingers
on the damp brow. Miss Tamlyn went away for a minute's respite from the
sick-room.
"Bertie, my boy!"
"Why didn't you come before, Arnold?" was the low, weak answer; and the
breath was laboured and the voice down nowhere. "I have wanted you. Aunt
Bessy would not write; and papa thought you would not care to come down
from London, just for me."
"But I would, Bertie--had I known you were as ill as this."
Bertie's hands were restless. The white quilt had knots in it as big as
peas, and he was picking at them. Dr. Knox sat down by the low bed.
"Do you think I am dying?" suddenly asked Bertie.
It took the doctor by surprise. One does not always know how to answer
such home questions.
"I'll tell you more about it when I've seen you by daylight, Bertie. Are
you in any pain?"
"Not a bit now: that's gone. But I'm weak, and I can't stir about
in bed, and--and--they all look at me so. This morning papa and
Shuttleworth brought in Dr. Green. Any way, you must know that I shall
not get to be as well as I used to be."
"What with one ailment and another, with care, and pain, and sorrow, and
wrong, it seems to me, Bertie, that very few of us are well for long
together. There's always something in this world: it is only when we go
to the next that we can hope for rest and peace."
Bertie lifted his restless hands and caught one of Dr. Knox's between
them. He had a yearning, imploring look that quite pained the doctor.
"I want you to forgive me, Arnold," he said, the tears running down.
"When I remember how wicked I was, my heart just faints with shame.
Calling all of you hideous names!--returning bitter words for kind ones.
When we are going to die the past comes back to us. Such a little while
it seems to have been now, Arnold! Why, if I had endured ten times as
much pain, it would be over now. You were all so gentle and patient with
me, and I never cared what trouble I gave, or what ill words I returned.
And now the time is gone! Arnold, I want you to forgive me."
"My dear boy, there's nothing to forgive. If you think there is, why
then I forgive you with all my heart."
"Will God ever forgive me, do you think?"
"Oh, my boy, yes," said the doctor, in a husky tone. "If we, poor
sinful mortals, can forgive one another, how much more readily will He
forgive--the good Father in heaven of us all!"
Bertie sighed. "It would have been so easy for me to have tried for a
little patience! Instead of that, I took pleasure in being cross and
obstinate and wicked! If the time would but come over again! Arnold, do
you think we shall be able to do one another good in the next world?--or
will the opportunity be lost with this?"
"Ah, Bertie, I cannot tell," said Dr. Knox. "Sometimes I think that just
because so few of us make use of our opportunities here, God will,
perhaps, give us a chance once again. I have not been at very many
death-beds yet, but of some of those the recollection of opportunities
wasted has made the chief sting. It is only when life is closing that we
see what we might have been, what we might have done."
"Perhaps He'll remember what my pain has been, Arnold, and how hard it
was to bear. I was not like other boys. They can run, and climb, and
leap, and ride on horseback, and do anything. When I've gone out, it has
been in a hand-carriage, you know; and I've had to lie and lie on the
sofa, and just look up at the blue sky, or on the street that tired me
so: or else in bed, where it was worse, and always hot. I hope He will
recollect how hard it was for me."
"He saw how hard it was for you at the time, Bertie; saw it always."
"And Jesus Christ forgave all who went to Him, you know, Arnold; every
one; just for the asking."
"Why, yes, of course He did. As He does now."
Mr. Tamlyn came into the room presently: he had been out to a patient.
Seeing that Bertie was half asleep, he and Dr. Knox stood talking
together on the hearthrug.
"What's that?" cried the surgeon, suddenly catching sight of the
movement of the restless fingers picking at the counterpane.
Dr. Knox did not answer.
"A trick he always had," said the surgeon, breaking the silence, and
trying to make believe to cheat himself still. "The maids say he wears
out all his quilts."