DOCTOR GALE
"When hope lies dead. Ah! when 'tis death to live
And wrongs remembered make the heart still bleed,
Better are sleep's kind lies for Life's blind need
Than truth, if lies a little peace can give."--THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON.
As Philippa entered the hall of Bessacre High House the butler met her.
"Dr. Gale is here, miss," he said. "He wished me to say that he would
be glad to speak to you when you came in."
"Certainly," she replied. "Where is the doctor?"
"In the library, miss. This way."
He conducted her to the door of the room and announced her. A man who
had been seated by the writing-table rose to meet her, an elderly man
with grizzled hair and beard and thick overhanging eyebrows.
"Miss Harford?" he said in a gruff, abrupt voice as he bowed.
"Yes," answered Philippa. "You wished to speak to me?"
"Please," he returned. "Won't you sit down? You must be tired, and I
am afraid I must detain you for a little while."
She seated herself and waited, while the doctor stood before her,
pulling fiercely at his ragged beard, and evidently at a loss for words.
When he spoke his manner was short and his tone rather harsh, but he
gave her the impression of a man who was to be trusted. Rough,
perhaps, but straightforward and honest, if somewhat unpolished. His
first words strengthened her conclusion.
"There is no use in beating about the bush; let us come to the heart of
the matter at once. What are you going to do?"
"What am I going to do?" repeated the girl in surprise. "What do you
mean?"
"I mean that we are in your hands. On your decision the life of
Francis Heathcote hangs. I understand from Mrs. Goodman that she has
put you in possession of the facts of the case. I have just been
speaking to her. I quite realise that the occurrence of to-day must
have been a very trying one for you, as trying as it was unexpected. I
cannot tell you what my feelings were when I saw you enter that room,
for I didn't know of your existence, much less of your presence in this
house; but the fact remains--Francis Heathcote has mistaken you for the
woman he loved years ago, and for whose coming he has waited so long.
"Undoubtedly the realisation of his hopes has been a great shock to
him, bodily, and mentally also, for the sight of you has had the effect
of dispersing the cloud which has shadowed his brain for so long. He
is now what may be called sane--perfectly sane--although the term is a
misleading one, for he has never been insane, as we understand the
word. His state has been curious. I can only describe it in the words
I used just now. His mind has been shadowed--clouded by one idea, one
obsession. And now, the sight of you, as he sees you, has removed the
cloud; he is satisfied and sane."
"Will he recover?" asked Philippa gently.
"I cannot say. He is very weak. But this I can say--that so surely as
he suffers another disappointment, or as he frets, and is not
satisfied, so surely he will die."
The doctor fixed his eyes upon the girl's upturned face. Intense
anxiety was written clearly upon his features; he tugged at his ragged
beard even more fiercely than before.
"But how is it possible---- How can I----" she faltered, and he
interrupted her vehemently--
"Don't decide--don't decide. Listen, and think of it--the pity of it!
For over twenty years I have been attending Francis Heathcote and seen
him constantly, with never a word of greeting from him, never a sign of
recognition. He is not merely my patient, he is my boyhood's dearest
friend, and since his accident I have watched him closely; at first
with hope, but later--with despair. If you could have known him in
early manhood, and then seen him struck down to the pitiful wreck of
after years, you would appreciate what it has been for those who loved
him--and we all loved him--to stand by and do nothing. He was the most
lovable creature it has ever been my lot to know.
"Miss Harford,"--he dropped into a chair at her side and leaned towards
her,--"to-night, when I went into his room, I thought he was sleeping,
but he opened his eyes and saw me standing beside him, and then----"
The doctor cleared his throat and steadied his voice, which was shaking
with emotion--"'Hullo, Rob!' he said. It was only a whisper, but I
tell you the old boyhood's name nearly did for me. 'Have I been
dreaming, or was Phil here?'
"'Yes, she was here,' I answered as lightly as I could.
"'Will she come?' he asked eagerly.
"'She will come,' I said. 'But you have been ill, and you must get a
bit stronger first.'"
The doctor paused, and for a few moments there was silence, broken only
by the words he was muttering under his breath, "Hullo, Rob! Hullo,
Rob!"
"May I ask a question?" said Philippa at last.
"Ask as many as you like," he replied quickly.
"Is his--condition--the state he has been in for all these years, I
mean--is it--was it the result of the accident, or----"
"I think I know what you want to say. You want to know to what extent
his long illness was due to the disappointment he suffered?"
She nodded.
"It is very difficult to say; but this I know, that had he been at the
time of the accident a man of good physique--which he undoubtedly
was--and had there been no adverse circumstances to complicate the
case, he would have recovered, and in course of time have been as sound
in brain as you or I. But quiet of mind, peace of mind, contentment,
are absolutely essential to recovery in such cases, and these were
exactly what he lacked. He fretted incessantly for the presence of the
woman he cared for so deeply--this made rest impossible, and it became
an obsession, a fixed idea, and his brain could not stand the strain.
This is hardly a technical explanation, but I want to put it in such a
way that you can understand."
"Would nothing have done him any good?" asked Philippa. "No treatment,
or operation?"
"All that has been possible in the way of treatment has been carried
out, but operation was out of the question; and, indeed, if it had been
deemed advisable Lady Louisa would never have agreed to it. She said,
and there was truth in her argument, that all the surgeons in the world
could not restore him what he missed and craved for. And now--at
last--it seems that a miracle has been performed, and you are here to
save him."
"What do you want me to do?" she asked in a low voice.
"I want you to go to him, to be with him occasionally, to content him,
to give him a little happiness--for all the years he has missed--a
little happiness--until----"
"Until?"
"Until he--dies--or----"
"Or?"
"We can't think of the future; we must just go on from day to day. I
know it is much to ask of you, a stranger, but I have no choice but to
ask it. Think it over. For a day or two I can keep him quiet, but not
for longer. Take a day or two to decide."
"I will think it over. I cannot decide now--indeed, indeed I cannot,"
said Philippa earnestly. "It is not that my heart is not wrung with
pity. It is the most pitiful thing I ever heard of; and if I--a
stranger, as you truly say--feel it pitiful, what must it be to you who
have known him always?"
Tears were standing in her eyes. Apart from the tragedy there was
something very touching in this man's affection and sorrow for his
friend. Neither gruffness of tone nor shortness of manner could
disguise the strength of the underlying feeling.
"What has his life been?" she asked. "What has he done?"
"Waited," answered the doctor shortly. "Just waited. Nothing more nor
less. He has occupied himself a little for a few moments at a time.
He has read, but does not remember what he reads, and the same book
serves him over and over again. He has painted a little, but always
the same thing--a woman's face--sketchy--unfinished, but recognisable;
and then thrown aside to commence another--but always the same face.
But never for one day in all these years has he forgotten the violets."
"What violets?"
"It was his custom during their short engagement to give her a bunch of
violets every morning. They were her favourite flower, and he took a
good deal of trouble to procure them, and when, after his accident, the
season for their blooming passed, and there were none, it distressed
him so terribly that his mother, Lady Louisa, insured that there should
be a constant supply for him.
"You will see the long line of glass lights in the kitchen garden.
These are exclusively for his violets. He always asks for them, and
places them in a vase of water in front of her portrait. A little
thing, but very pathetic, isn't it?"
"Does he speak?"
"Oh yes. He has always received me with some polite remark, as if I
were a perfect stranger whom he had never seen before, but he always
seemed in a hurry to get rid of me. Sometimes he would excuse his
haste by saying he was expecting a visitor. It was just the same when
he saw Mrs. Goodman. He was perfectly civil, but evidently impatient
of anything or any one who disturbed him, who distracted his attention
from his incessant waiting and listening. It is so difficult to know
how much he has really understood. Sometimes I think that under the
cloud he may really be aware of a great deal more than we give him
credit for, but he shows no sign of it."
"Does he see Major Heathcote?"
"Sometimes; not very often. When the Major and his wife first came to
live here they were most anxious to do everything in their power to
make his life as happy as possible; but after a while they realised
what I had told them from the first, and that was, that the more he was
undisturbed the more content he was. Or rather I should say the less
distressed, for he was never content. There was never a moment when I
felt I could say, 'Now he is not thinking of her; now he has really
forgotten that he is waiting for her.' He takes the Major for his own
half-brother, William Heathcote. Bill, he was always called, like his
son Bill, the Major. Francis never knew his half-brother very
intimately; there was a great disparity in their ages, and Bill never
got on very well with his step-mother, Lady Louisa--or rather Mrs. Bill
didn't, which came to the same thing. They never came here very much."
"Didn't he know his mother?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Who can tell? He never appeared
to. He was just the same to her as he was to any one else who entered
his room--quite polite, but glad when they went away."
"How awful for her!" cried Philippa.
"Yes, it was awful. She was a wonderful woman--one of the old type.
She had no notion of admitting the outside world into her affairs, or
of discussing her inmost feelings with any one. A woman of dauntless
courage, old Lady Louisa; and if some people thought her hard it was
not to be wondered at; she was a bit hard, but it was merely a sort of
armour she put on in self-defence. She fought every inch of the
way--every inch. She never lost patience, even after hope was gone.
Everything she could think of she did, trying endless devices to
interest and amuse him--for years Francis drove with her every day.
And finally she accepted the truth with the same courage with which she
had fought against it--the courage that knows when it is beaten--and
ceased to try and rouse him. He hasn't been outside his room for years
now. Many people don't know he lives here--new-comers to the place, I
mean; for the older folk in the village, who reverenced Lady Louisa and
loved him, respected her wishes too much to chatter. Which is saying a
good deal, isn't it? For it takes a good bit to stay a gossip's
tongue. But her will was law in the place, and I never heard of any
one attempting to dispute it. I know she suffered agonies of mind, but
I never knew her break down until just at the last, when she was dying.
She kept death at bay by sheer strength of will for weeks, simply
because she couldn't bear to leave him. He was her only son--her only
child. And her last words were, 'Let him come soon, O God; let him
come soon.' Go and look at her grave and read the inscription she
wrote out herself for it. Poor Lady Louisa! and poor Francis!"
"Did you know my father?" asked the girl after a while.
"Yes; I knew him, but not so well as I knew your aunt. I was a good
deal away after my boyhood, and my holidays later on did not always
coincide with his visits here, but I met him several times."
"He never spoke to me of his sister."
"That I can understand. It is only what I should have expected. I
happened to see your father, Miss Harford, as he left this house when
he came here after the accident. He had seen his sister, he had failed
in his efforts to persuade her, all his arguments had been of no avail,
and his distress was beyond all words. He had loved Francis
Heathcote--he was his most intimate friend--and he had adored his
sister. Up to that time I think he had firmly believed that she could
do no wrong. And then, to find that under stress of trouble she had
failed so grievously nearly broke his heart. And yet"--the doctor
spoke slowly and thoughtfully--"yet--I think still as I thought then,
and as I told him that day, that she should not be too greatly blamed."
"But of course she was to blame," cried Philippa hotly. "Her behaviour
was inhuman."
"So it seems to us," he replied. "But we must remember what she was--a
spoilt child--a butterfly. Your father himself spoilt her absolutely.
She had never been crossed--had never known a moment's anxiety--never
even been obliged to do anything she did not like--to do anything
except please herself. She was beautiful--most beautiful; and if she
was shallow, well, then the very shallowness only made her more
attractive. She fascinated us all." The man's voice took on a softer
tone as he spoke. "Francis loved her--madly--passionately. His
overwhelming joy in their betrothal was a thing never to be forgotten
by those who saw it. And yet--thinking it over, as I have thought it
over so often--was there ever a single action of hers--a single
spontaneously unselfish action on her part--which should have led us to
suppose, to expect that she would rise high in any crisis? We were all
at her feet. We never noticed that she was utterly self-centred,
because we, with all the world, were ready to satisfy her lightest
wish. No, no, it was we who were wrong--wrong in our estimate of her.
We expected too much--we expected more than she was able to give--more
than a woman of her character was able to give. She simply acted as
she had acted all her life--doing what she liked best--refraining from
doing what was uncongenial--what did not amuse her. Poor, beautiful
butterfly! she was broken sadly at the finish. By all accounts her
married life was very unhappy. She did not live long."
"You are very charitable," said Philippa reflectively.
"No," he replied in his abrupt way, "I'm not. I'm merely wise after
the event, which is an easy thing enough. Ah, well, if Francis had
married her the chances are she would have failed him--if not in one
way, then in another. He endowed her with a half-angelic personality
which in truth was not hers at all. He placed her on a high pedestal
from which she must have fallen at the first buffet of life, and life
gives plenty of buffets, although perhaps you are too young to know the
truth of that at present." He rose as he spoke. "You are not so like
her as I thought you were when I first saw you," he went on, standing
and looking intently at the girl. "When I first saw you to-day I
thought you were just the very living image of your aunt, but you are
not. If you will forgive my plain speaking, I should like to say that
you are not so beautiful, but that you have more soul in your
face--more strength of character And it is what I see written there
that makes me dare to hope that you will see that we are in your hands.
But there, we won't say any more about that now. It isn't fair to urge
you, although God knows I wish to. Let me know your decision in a day
or two, and I will do my best to keep him quiet until then. When does
the Major return?"
Philippa hastily told him of Dickie's illness and the sudden departure
of his anxious parents, and also of the telegram she had received.
The doctor pulled at his beard.
"It is unfortunate," he muttered. "I have been writing to him to tell
him the state of affairs here, and I am sure he will come if he can.
Let us hope their worry about the boy will soon be over. The little
chap has a splendid constitution. I shall be over to-morrow morning.
Don't hesitate to send for me if you want me, and don't go into Francis
Heathcote's room until I have prepared him for your visit--not unless
there is any crisis and you are obliged to do so. But I think he will
be quiet enough. Go to bed, my dear young lady, and get a good rest;
you must need it. And forgive me having detained you for so long."