"WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE."
When Alice first heard the news of Tom Durham's death, she was deeply
and seriously grieved. Not that she had seen much of her half-brother
at any period of her life, not that there was any special bond of
sympathy between them, nor that the shifty, thriftless ne'er-do-well
possessed any qualities likely to find much favour with a person of
Alice's uprightness and rectitude of conduct. But the girl could not
forget the old days when Tom, as a big strong lad, just returned from
his first rough introduction to the world, would take her, a little
delicate mite, and carry her aloft on his shoulders round the garden,
and even deprive himself of the huge pipe and the strong tobacco which
he took such pride in smoking, because the smell was offensive to her.
She could not forget that whenever he returned from his wanderings,
short as his stay in England might be, he made a point of coming to
see her, always bringing some little present, some quaint bit of
foreign art-manufacture, which he knew Would please her fancy; and
though his purse was generally meagrely stocked, always asking her
whether she was in want of money, and offering to share its contents
with her. More vividly than all she recalled to mind his softness of
manner and gentleness of tone, on the occasion of their last parting;
she recollected how he had clasped her to his breast at the station,
and how she had seen the tears falling down his cheeks as the train
moved away; she remembered his very words: "I am not going to be
sentimental, it isn't in my line; but I think I like you better than
anybody else in the world, though I didn't take to you much at first."
And again: "So I love you, and I leave you with regret." Poor Tom,
poor dear Torn! such was the theme of Alice's daily reflection,
invariably ending in her breaking down and comforting herself with a
good cry.
But, in addition to the loss of her brother, Alice Claxton had great
cause for anxiety and mental disturbance. John had returned from his
last business tour weary, dispirited, and obviously very much out of
health. The brightness had faded from his blue eyes, the lines round
them and his mouth seemed to have doubled both in number and depth,
his stoop was considerably increased, and instead of his frank hearty
bearing, he crept about, when he thought he was unobserved, with
dawdling footsteps, and with an air of lassitude pervading his every
movement. He strove his best to disguise his condition from Alice; he
struggled hard to talk to her in his old cheerful way, to take
interest in the details of her management of the house and garden, to
hear little Bell her lessons, and to play about with the child on days
when the weather rendered it possible for him to go into the
shrubbery. But even during the time when Alice was talking or reading
to him, or when he was romping with the child, he would suddenly
subside into a kind of half-dazed state, his eyes staring blankly
before him, his hands dropped listlessly by his side; he would not
reply until he had been spoken to twice or thrice, and would then look
up as though he had either not heard or not understood the question
addressed to him. If it was painful to Alice to see her husband in
that state, it was far more distressing to observe his struggles to
recover his consciousness, and his attempts at being more like his old
self. In his endeavours to talk and laugh, to rally his young wife
after his usual fashion, and to comprehend and be interested in the
playful babble of the child, there was a ghastly galvanised vivacity
most painful to behold.
Watching her husband day by day with the greatest interest and care,
studying him so closely that she was enabled to anticipate his various
changes of manner, and almost to foretell the next expression of his
face, Alice Claxton became convinced that there was something
seriously the matter with him, and it was her duty, whether he wished
it or not, to call in medical advice. Mr. Broadbent, the village
apothecary, had had a great deal of experience, and was invariably
spoken of as a clever, kind-hearted man. When the Claxtons first
established themselves at Rose Cottage, the old-fashioned residents in
the neighbourhood duly called and left their cards; but after John had
consulted with Alice, telling her that he left her to do entirely as
she thought fit in the matter, but that for his own part he had no
desire to commence a new series of acquaintance, it was agreed between
them that it would be sufficient to deliver cards in return, and all
farther attempts at social intercourse were politely put aside and
ignored. In such a village as Hendon was a few years ago, it was,
however, impossible without actual rudeness to avoid the acquaintance
of the vicar and the doctor, and consequently the Reverend Mr.
Tomlinson and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Broadbent, were on visiting
terms at Rose Cottage.
Visiting terms, so far as the Tomlinsons were concerned, meant an
interchange of dinners twice in the year; but Mr. Broadbent was seen,
by Mrs. Claxton at least, far more frequently. The story of little
Bell's adoption had got wind throughout the neighbourhood, and the
spinsters and the gushing young ladies, who thought it "so romantic,"
unable to effect an entrance for themselves into the enchanted bower,
anxiously sought information from Mr. Broadbent, who was, as they
knew, a privileged person. The apothecary was by no means backward in
purveying gossip for the edification of his fair hearers, and his
eulogies of Mrs. Claxton's good looks, and his detailed descriptions
of little Bell's infantile maladies, were received with much delight
at nearly all the tea-tables in the neighbourhood. Whether John
Claxton had heard of this, whether he had taken any personal dislike
to Mr. Broadbent, or whether it was merely owing to his natural
shyness and reserve, that he absented himself from the room on nearly
every occasion of the doctor's visits, Alice could not tell; but such
was the case. When they did meet, they talked politely, and seemed on
the best of terms; but John seemed to take care that their meetings
should be as few as possible.
What was to be done? John had now been home three days, and was
visibly worse than on his arrival. Alice had spoken to him once or
twice, seriously imploring him to tell her what was the matter with
him, but had been received the first time with a half-laugh, the
second time with a grave frown. He was quite well, he said, quite
well, so far as his bodily health was concerned; a little worried,
he allowed; business worries, which a woman could not understand,
matters connected with the firm which gave him a certain amount of
anxiety--nothing more. Alice thought that this was not the whole
truth, and that John, in his love for her, and desire to spare her any
grief, had made light of what was really serious suffering. The more
she thought over it, the more anxious and alarmed she became, and at
length, when on the fourth morning after John's return, she had peeped
into the little library and seen her husband sitting there at the
window, not heeding the glorious prospect before him, not heeding the
book which lay upon his lap, but lying backwards in his chair, with
his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes closed, his complexion a
dull sodden red, she determined on at once sending for Mr. Broadbent,
without saying a word to John about it. An excuse could easily be
found; little Bell had a cold and was slightly feverish, and the
doctor had been sent for to prescribe for her; and though he could see
Mr. Claxton and have a talk with him, Alice would take care that John
should not suspect that he was the object of Mr. Broadbent's visit.
Mr. Broadbent came, pleasant and chatty at first, imagining he had
been sent for to see the little girl in one of the ordinary illnesses
of childhood; graver and much less voluble as, on their way up to the
nursery, Mrs. Claxton confided to him her real object in requesting
his presence. Little Bell duly visited, the conspiring pair came down
stairs again, and Alice going first, opened the door and discovered
Mr. Claxton in the attitude in which she had last seen him, fast
asleep and breathing heavily. He roused himself at the noise on their
entrance, rubbed his eyes, and rose wearily to his feet, covered with
confusion as soon as he made out that Alice had a companion.
"Well, John," cried Alice, with a well-feigned liveliness, "you were
asleep, I declare! See, here is Mr. Broadbent come to shake hands with
you. He was good enough to come round and look at little Bell, who has
a bad cold, poor child, and a little flushing in the skin, which
frightened me; but Mr. Broadbent says it's nothing."
"Nothing at all, Mr. Claxton, take my word for it," said the doctor,
who had by this time advanced into the room, and by a little skilful
manoeuvring had got his back to the window, while he had turned John
Claxton, whose hand he held, with his face to the light; "nothing at
all, the merest nothing; but ladies, as you know, are even frightened
at that, particularly where little ones are concerned. Well, Mr.
Claxton," continued the doctor, who was a big jolly man, with a red
face, a pair of black bushy whiskers, and a deep voice, "and how do
you find yourself, sir?"
"I am quite well, thank you, doctor," said John Claxton, plucking up
and striving to do his best; "I may say quite well."
"Lucky man not to find all your travelling knock you about," said
the doctor. "I have known several men--commercials--who say they
cannot stand the railway half so well as they used to do the old
coaches--shakes them, jars them altogether. By the way, there is
renewed talk about our having a railway here. Have you heard anything
about it?"
"Not I," said John Claxton, "and I fervently hope it will not come in
my time. I am content with old Davis's coach."
"Ah," said the doctor with a laugh, "you must find old Davis's coach
rather a contrast to some of the railways you are in the habit of
scouring the country in, both in regard to speed and comfort. However,
I must be off; glad to see you looking so well. Good-morning. Now,
Mrs. Claxton," added the doctor, as he shook hands with John, "if you
will just come with me, I should like to look at that last
prescription I wrote for the little lady upstairs."
No sooner were they in the dining-room, with the door closed behind
them, than Alice laid her hand upon the doctor's arm, and looked up
into his face pale and eager with anxiety.
"Well," she said, "how does he look? what do you think? Tell me at
once."
"It is impossible, my dear Mrs. Claxton," said the good-natured
apothecary, looking at her kindly, and speaking in a softened voice;
"it is impossible for me to judge of Mr. Claxton's state from a mere
cursory glance and casual talk; but I am bound to say that, from what
I could observe, I fancy he must be considerably out of health."
"So I thought," said Alice; "so I feared." And her tears fell fast.
"You must not give way, my dear madam," said Mr. Broadbent. "What I
say may be entirely unfounded. I am, recollect, only giving you my
impression after a conversation with your husband, in which, at your
express wish, I refrained from asking him anything about himself."
"If I could manage to persuade him to see you, would you come in this
afternoon or tomorrow morning, Mr. Broadbent?"
"I would, of course, do anything you wished; but as Mr. Claxton has
never hitherto done me the honour to consult me professionally, and as
it seems to me to be a case the diagnosis of which should be very
carefully gone into, I would recommend that he should consult some
physician of eminence. Possibly he knows such a one."
"No," said Alice, "I have never heard him mention any physician since
our marriage."
"If that be the case, I would strongly advise you to call in Doctor
Houghton. He is a man of the greatest eminence; and, as it happens, I
see him every day just now, as we have a regular consultation at the
Rookery--you know, the large place on the other side of the village,
where poor Mr. Piggott is lying dangerously ill. If you like, I will
mention the case to Doctor Haughton when I see him to-morrow."
"Thank you, Mr. Broadbent; I am deeply obliged to you, but I must
speak to John first. I should not like to do anything without his
knowledge. I will speak to him this afternoon, and send a note round
to you in the evening." And Mr. Broadbent, much graver and much less
boisterous than usual, took his departure.
John Claxton remained pretty much in the same dozing kind of state
during the day. He came in to luncheon, and made an effort to talk
cheerfully upon the contents of the newspaper and suchlike topics, and
afterwards he had a romp in the hall with little Bell, the weather
being too raw for the child to go out of doors. But two or three turns
at the battledore and shuttlecock, two or three spinnings of the big
humming-top, two or three hidings behind the greatcoats, seemed to be
enough for him, and he rang for the nurse to take the child to her
room just as the little one was beginning to enter into the sport of
the various games. Alice had been in and out through the hall during
the pastime, and saw the child go quietly off, bearing her
disappointment bravely, and saw her husband turn listlessly into the
library, his hands buried in the pockets of his shooting-jacket and
his head sunk upon his breast. Poor little Alice! Her life for the
last few years had been so bright and so full of sunshine; her whole
being was so bound up with that of her kind thoughtful husband, who
had taken her from almost penial drudgery and made her the star and
idol of his existence, that when she saw him fighting bravely against
the illness which was bearing him down, and ever striving to hide it
from her, she could not make head against the trouble, but retired
into a corner of her pretty little drawing-room and wept bitterly.
Then when the fit of weeping was over, she roused herself; her brain
cleared and her determination renewed. "It is impossible that this can
go on," she said to herself; "I have a part and share in John's life
now; it belongs to me almost as much as to him, and it is my duty to
see that it is not endangered. He will be angry, I know, but I must
bear his anger. After what Mr. Broadbent said this morning, it is
impossible that I can allow matters to remain in their present state
without acting upon the advice which he gave me; and be the result
what it may, I will do so."
The autumn twilight had fallen upon the garden, wrapping it in its dim
grey folds, the heavy mists were beginning to rise from the damp
earth, and the whole aspect outside was dreary and chilly. But when
Alice entered the little library she found John Claxton standing at
the window, with his head lying against the pane, and apparently rapt
in the contemplation of the cheerless landscape.
"John," she said, creeping close to him, and laying her hand upon his
shoulder, "John."
"Yes, dear," he replied, passing his arm round her and drawing her
closely to him. "You wondered what had become of me; you came to
reproach me for leaving you so long to yourself?"
"No, John, not that," said Alice; "there is noting in the wide world
for which I have to reproach you; there has been nothing since you
first made me mistress of your house."
"And of my heart, Alice; don't forget that," said her husband,
tenderly; "of my heart."
"And of your heart," she repeated. "But when you gave me that position
you expected me to take with it its responsibilities as well as its
happiness, did you not? You did not bring me here to be merely a toy
or a plaything--no,--I don't mean that exactly; I mean not merely to
be something for your petting and your amusement--you meant me to be
your wife, John; to share with you your troubles and anxieties, and to
have a voice of my own, a very little one, in the regulation of all
things in which you were concerned?"
"Certainly, Alice," said her husband; "have I not shown this?"
"Always before, John, always up to within the last few days. And if
you are not doing so now, it is, I know, from no lack of love, but
rather out of care and thoughtfulness for me."
"Why, Alice," said John, with a struggle to revive his old playful
manner, "what is the matter with you? How grave the little woman is
to-night."
"Yes, John; I am grave, because I know you are ill, and that you are
striving to hide it from me lest I should be alarmed. That is not the
way it should be, John; you know we swore to be loyal to each other in
sickness as well as in health, and it would be my pride as well as my
duty to take up my place by you in sickness and be your nurse."
"I want no nurse, little woman," he said, bending tenderly over her.
"As I told you this morning, I am quite well only a little--" And then
his brain reeled, and his legs tottered beneath him, and had he not
caught hold of the chair standing at his elbow, he would have fallen
to the ground.
"You are ill, John; there is the proof," Alice cried, after he had
seated himself and thrown himself heavily back in the chair. She knelt
by his side, bathing his forehead with eau-de-cologne. "You are ill,
and must be attended to at once. Now listen; do you understand me?"
A feeble pressure of her hand intimated assent.
"Well, then, Mr. Broadbent mentioned quite by accident this morning
that a celebrated London physician, a Doctor Haughton I think he
called him, was in the habit of coming up here every day just now to
visit Mr. Piggott it the Rookery; and it struck me at the time that it
would be a very good plan if we could send round to the Rookery and
ask this Doctor Haughton to call in as he was passing and see you."
"No!" cried John Claxton in a loud voice, as he started up in his
chair; "no, I forbid you distinctly to do anything of the kind. I will
have no strange doctor admitted into this house. Understand, Alice,
these are my orders, and I insist on their being obeyed."
"That is quite enough, John," said Alice; "you know that your will is
my law; still I hope to make you think better of it for your own sake
and for mine."
They said no more about it just then. Alice remained kneeling by her
husband, holding his hand in hers, and softly smoothing his hair, and
bathing his forehead, until the dinner was announced. The threat of
calling in Doctor Haughton seemed to have had an inspiriting effect on
the invalid. He ate and drank more than he had done on the three
previous days, and talked more freely and with greater gaiety. So
comparatively lively was he, that Alice began to hope that he had been
merely suffering, as he had said, under an accumulation of business
worries, and that with a little rest and quiet he would recover his
ordinary health and spirits.
Quite late in the evening, as they were sitting together in the
library, John began talking to his wife about Tom Durham. He had
scarcely touched upon the subject since the news of the unfortunate
man's death had arrived in England, and even now he introduced it
cautiously and with becoming reverence.
"Of course it was a sad blow," he said, "and just now it seems very
hard for you to bear; but don't think I have failed to notice, Alice,
how, in your love and care for me, you have set aside your own grief
lest the sight of your sorrow should distress me."
"I don't know that I deserve any gratitude for that, John; my care for
you is so very much greater than any other feeling which can possibly
enter into my mind, that it stands apart and alone, and I cannot
measure others by it. And yet I was very fond of poor Tom," she said,
pensively.
"It will be a comfort for us to think, not now so much as hereafter,
that we did our best to start him in an honest career, and to give him
the chance of achieving a good position," said John Claxton. "He had
seen a great many of the ups and downs of life, had poor Tom Durham."
"He was a strange mixture of good and evil," said Alice; "but to me he
was always uniformly kind and affectionate. He had a strange regard
for me, as being, I suppose, something totally different from what he
was usually brought in contact with; he took care that I should see
nothing but the best and brightest side of him, though of course I
knew from others that he was full of faults."
"And you loved him all the same?"
"And yet, as you say, I loved him all the same."
"And nothing you could hear now would alter your opinion of him?"
"No, John, I think--I am sure not. I am a strange being, and this is
one of my characteristics, that no fault known at the time or
discovered afterwards, could in the slightest degree influence my
feelings towards one whom I had really loved."
"You are sure of that, Alice?" said John Claxton, bending down and
looking earnestly at her.
"Quite sure," she replied.
"That is one of the sweetest traits in your sweet self," said her
husband, kissing her fervently.
The next morning Mr. Claxton's improvement seemed to continue. He was
up tolerably early, ate a good breakfast, and talked with all his
accustomed spirit. Alice began to think that she had been precipitate
in her idea of calling in medical advice, particularly in sending for
a stranger like Doctor Haughton, and was glad that John had overruled
her in the matter. Later in the morning, the air being tolerably mild,
and the sun shining, he went with little Bell into the garden, first
walking quietly round the paths, and afterwards, in compliance with
the child's request, giving himself up for a romping game at play. It
was while engaged in this game that John Claxton felt as though he had
suddenly lost his intellect, that everything was whirling round him in
wild chaotic disorder, then that he was stricken blind and deaf, then
that with one great blow depriving him almost of life, he was smitten
to the earth. On the earth he lay; while the child, conceiving this to
be a part of the game, ran off with shrieks of delight to some new
hiding-place. On the earth he lay, how long he knew not, having only
the consciousness, when he came to himself; of being dazed and
stunned, and sore all over, as though he had been severely beaten.
John Claxton knew what this meant. He felt it would be almost
impossible any longer to hide the state in which he was from the eager
anxious eyes of his wife. He would make one more attempt, however; so,
bracing himself together, he managed to proceed with tolerable
steadiness towards the house. Alice came out to meet him, beaming with
happiness.
"What has become of you, you silly John?" she cried. "I have been
looking for you everywhere. Bell told me she left you hiding somewhere
in the garden, and I have just sent up for my cloak, determined to
search for you myself."
"Bell was quite right, dear," said John, slowly and with great effort.
"I was hiding, as she said; but as she did not come to find me, I
thought I had better make the best of my way without her."
"Not before you were required, sir. I was waiting for you to give me
my monthly cheque. Don't you know that to-day is the twenty-fourth,
when I always pay my old pensioners and garden people?"
"Is to-day the twenty-fourth?" asked John Claxton, his face flushing
very red, as he fumbled in his pocket for his note-book.
"Certainly, John. Thursday the twenty-fourth, and--"
"I must go," said John Claxton hoarsely, after he had found his
note-book and looked into it; "I must go to London at once."
"To London, John?"
"Yes, at once; particular appointment with Mr. Calverley for to-day. I
cannot think how I have forgotten it; but I must go."
"You are not well enough to go, John; you must not."
"I tell you I must and will!" said John Claxton fiercely. "I shall
come back to-night; or, if I have to go off out of town, I will tell
you where to send my portmanteau. Don't be angry, dear. I didn't mean
to be cross--I didn't indeed; but business--most important business."
He spoke thickly and hurriedly, his veins were swollen, and his eyes
seemed starting out of his head.
"Won't you wait for Davis's coach, John?" said Alice softly. "It will
start in half an hour."
"No, no; let it pick me up on the road. Tell Davis to look out for me;
a little walk will do me good. Give me my hat and coat; and now, God
bless you, my darling. You are not angry with me? Let me hear that
before I start."
"I never was angry with you, John. I never could be angry with you so
long as I live."
He wound his arms around her and held her to his heart; then with
rapid shambling steps he started off down the high-road. He walked on
and on; he must have gone, he thought, at least two miles; would the
coach never come? The excitement which sustained him at first now
began to fail him; he felt his legs tottering under him; then suddenly
the blindness and the deafness came on him again, the singing in his
ears, the surging in his brain; and he fell by the roadside, helpless
and senseless.
The delightfully-interesting case of Mr. Piggott of the Rookery had
brought together Doctor Haughton and Mr. Broadbent, after a separation
of many years, and led them to renew the old friendship, which had
been interrupted since their student days at St. George's. Nature was
not doing much for Mr. Piggott, and the case was likely to be
pleasantly protracted; so that on this very day Doctor Haughton had
asked Mr. Broadbent to come and dine and sleep at his house in
Saville-row, where he would meet with some old friends and several
distinguished members of the profession; and the pair were rolling
easily into town in Doctor Haughton's carriage, with the black bag,
containing Mr. Broadbent's evening dress, carefully placed under the
coachman's legs.
"What is this? A knot of people gathered by the roadside, all craning
forward eagerly, and looking at something on the ground. The
coachman's practised eye detects an accident instantly, and he whips
up his horses and stops them just abreast of the crowd.
"What is it?" cried the coachman.
"Man in a fit," cried one of the crowd.
"That be blowed," said another; "he won't have any more of such fits
as them, I reckon. The man's dead; that's what he is."
Hearing these words Mr. Broadbent opened the door and pushed his way
among the crowd. Instantly he returned, his face full of horror.
"Good God!" he said to his companion, "who do you think it is? The
man--the very man about whom I was speaking to you just now--Claxton."
Doctor Haughton descended from the carriage in a more leisurely and
professional manner, stepped among the people, who made way for him
right and left, knelt by the prostrate body; lifted its arms and
applied his fingers to its wrists. Then he shook his head.
"The man is dead," he said; "there can be no doubt about that." And he
bent forward to look at the features. Instantly recognising him, he
sprang back. "Who did you say this man was?" he said, turning to Mr.
Broadbent.
"Claxton--Mr. Claxton, of Rose Cottage."
"Nothing of the sort," said the doctor. "I knew him well; it is Mr.
Calverley, of Great Walpole-street."
"My good sir," said Mr. Broadbent, "I knew the man well. I saw him
only yesterday."
"And I knew Mr. Calverley well. He was one of Chipchase's patients,
and I attended him when Chipchase was out of town. We can soon settle
this--Here, you lad, just stand at those horses' heads--Gibson," to
his coachman, "get down, and come here. Did you ever see that gentleman
before?" pointing to the body.
The man bent forward and took a long and solemn stare.
"Certainly, sir," he replied at length, touching his hat; "Mr.
Calverley, sir, of Great Walpole-street. Seen him a score of times."
"What do you think of that?" said Doctor Haughton, turning to his
companion.
"Think!" said Mr. Broadbent, "I will tell you what I think--that Mr.
Claxton of Rose Cottage and Mr. Calverley of Great Walpole-street were
one and the same man!"
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON:
ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Yellow Flag, Volume 1 (of 3), by Edmund Yates