Dr. Max Brunnow learned from his friend's mouth the sentence of
banishment passed on him by Councillor Moser; he treated the whole
subject, however, with most unbecoming levity.
"I positively should have gone again," he said, laughing. "That
excellent old gentleman, with his bureaucratic majesty of demeanour and
his prodigious cravat, is a sight worth seeing, and the girl is really
in want of rational medical advice; I can understand that 'the most
loyal subject of his most gracious Majesty' should banish my father's
son from the precincts of his home, but it is a pity my practice in
R---- should be thus summarily brought to an end. It promised to be, if
not remunerative, at least amusing."
Another case soon came under the young man's notice, which, though even
less likely to be lucrative, provided in an unhoped-for degree the
"amusement" here so ruthlessly denied him. George had begged his friend
to visit the wife of a poor law-writer who occasionally copied for the
Assessor, and for whom the latter had often obtained employment in the
Government bureaux. The wife had long been suffering from some wasting
disease. The doctor called in to her came but seldom, declared with a
shrug of the shoulders that there was not much to be done, and finally
ceased his visits altogether, the family being in impoverished
circumstances and quite unable to pay his fees. Max at once responded
to his friend's appeal, and went next day to the cottage indicated to
him as the patient's dwelling, which was situated in the suburb lying
at the foot of the Castle-hill.
A little girl about ten years of age opened the door, and admitted the
young surgeon to a scantily-furnished room. Two younger children ceased
from their play to stare at the strange gentleman with big eyes of
astonishment; the mother, wrapped in blankets and supported by pillows,
sat in an old arm-chair. Max was going straight up to the invalid when
he paused suddenly, seeing at her side a young lady with pale cheeks
and smoothly-braided hair, attired in a dark, nun-like dress. She was
reading aloud from a volume she held in her hand, its gilt edges and
the cross on the cover unmistakably denoting a prayer-book. The young
lady was Councillor Moser's daughter. She ceased reading, and rose in
some confusion on recognising the new-comer.
"Good-morning, Fraeulein," said Max, quietly. "Excuse my disturbing you,
but mine is a doctor's errand to an invalid, and this time I really am
the person expected, and no mistake."
The young girl crimsoned to the temples, and drew back. She made no
reply. Dr. Brunnow now introduced himself to the sick woman, who was
prepared for his visit. He began at once to question her as to her
symptoms, in order to ascertain the precise stage the malady had
reached. He went to work in no specially mild or considerate manner,
not attempting consolation, or even giving any decided hope or
encouragement; but his brief, clear remarks, and prompt, definite
instructions, inspired confidence, and produced on his patient a
remarkably soothing effect.
Meanwhile Agnes Moser had remained in the background, busying herself
with the children. She seemed hardly to know whether she ought to go or
stay, but at length determined on the former course. She put on her
hat, and took leave of the invalid, who expressed her warm and earnest
thanks for the girl's kindness. But if Agnes thought so to escape
further intercourse with Dr. Brunnow, she was mistaken. With a few
brief parting words he enjoined strict attention to his instructions,
promised to return the following day, and then, with the utmost
coolness and easy serenity, followed the girl as she went out.
"So I am not to look on you as my patient any longer, Fraeulein?" he
began, as soon as they were out of doors. "Your father seems to
attribute to me all the blame of a misunderstanding for which I really
was not responsible. He had me informed in the most unequivocal terms
that he did not desire a renewal of my visit."
Agnes cast down her eyes in painful embarrassment.
"I beg your pardon, Dr. Brunnow; the fault was mine alone. Pray believe
that it is no want of confidence in your professional skill which
induces my father to decline your advice. There are, I believe, other
grounds----"
"Political grounds!" interrupted Max, with undisguised irony.
"Councillor Moser detests the revolutionary name I bear; he insists
upon seeing in me a socialist and a demagogue. Far be it from me to
impose my counsels on him or on you, but I should like to ask the fate
of my prescription. You made no use of it, I suppose."
"Oh yes," replied Agnes, in a low voice. "I took the medicine."
"With any good result?"
"Yes. I feel better since I began it."
"I am glad to hear that. But how does my worthy colleague, who is now
treating you, approve of your taking another doctor's advice?"
"No one is treating me just at present," confessed the young girl. "Dr.
Helm, who was originally sent for, took the mistake that had occurred
in very ill part. I suppose I was rather embarrassed and at a loss what
to do when he called, for he withdrew at once on finding that a
prescription had already been given, and he received the excuses my
father has since made him very coolly indeed. As I felt better the very
day after I began your medicine, I thought--well, I have just gone on
following your instructions."
"Keep to that," said Max, dryly. "There can be nothing treasonable in a
bottle of medicine. The Councillor himself must admit so much."
They had now reached the Castle-hill, and Agnes stopped, confidently
expecting that her companion would here leave her; but he merely
remarked, "You are going through the Castle-hill gardens, I suppose.
That is my way too," and remained by her side, looking as though it
were the most simple and natural thing in the world for him to bear her
company.
The young girl glanced timidly and anxiously up at him. Her shyness
would not allow her to decline his escort, so she resigned herself to
the inevitable, and they walked on together.
"As regards my present patient," the young surgeon recommenced; "her
condition is precarious no doubt, but not altogether hopeless. Perhaps
we may yet be able to preserve her to her family. From the poor woman's
expressions of gratitude, I gather that you have already made her
frequent visits."
"We heard of the family's distressed circumstances," answered Agnes.
"The husband occasionally does some work for the Chancellery, and my
father knows him to be industrious and deserving; so I determined I
would go and see the invalid, to give her, at least, some spiritual
consolation."
"Spiritual consolation is quite superfluous at present," said Max, in
his rough way. "Strong beef-tea and nourishing wine would be of a great
deal more use."
Fraeulein Agnes seemed inclined to execute one of those rapid retreats
which at their first meeting had marked her horror of his impious
speeches; but on this occasion she thought better of it, and held her
ground. There was even a spice of sharpness in her gentle low-toned
voice, as she answered:
"I have provided for such wants as well, and will continue to do so to
the extent of my ability; but it seemed to me urgently necessary that
this sick woman should be prepared for the Heaven which may shortly
open its gates to her."
"Rather a singular occupation for a young lady of your years," remarked
Max. "At your age it is usual to prefer the things of this world, and
to leave heavenly joys to take care of themselves."
Agnes was evidently offended at his jesting manner. Her accustomed
gentleness forsook her for a moment, and she answered in rather an
angry tone:
"I have already renounced the world, and such pious offices are only a
preparation for my future vocation. In a few months I am to take the
veil."
Max stopped abruptly, and looked at her in amazement.
"My dear young lady, this won't do at all!" he cried suddenly.
"Dr. Brunnow, I must beg of you----" interrupted the young girl,
warningly; but Dr. Brunnow was not deterred by this protest against his
unwarrantable interference.
"I tell you this won't do at all," he repeated decidedly. "You are in
ill health, of a very delicate constitution, and you need the greatest
care if you wish to get permanently cured. Cloister-life, with its
severe regulations, its retirement, and all the fatigue and excitement
of prayer and penance which make up its daily routine, is utterly
unsuited to a person of your temperament. The result to you would
infallibly be a pulmonary complaint--consumption--death!"
The young doctor delivered this speech with oracular solemnity, as
though he in person would be called on to dispense the threatened fate,
and his words did not fail in their effect, Agnes looked at him with a
scared expression of countenance; then she bowed her head resignedly,
and said in an almost inaudible voice:
"I did not think my illness was so serious."
"It is not serious, if you will lead a sensible and natural life," said
Max, quite wrathfully; "but convent-life is the climax of all that is
unnatural and absurd, and you would assuredly fall a victim to it
before many years were over."
Agnes considered whether it would not become her speedily and at once
to fly from this doctor, whose impiety was becoming more and more
manifest; but she determined to cast one last searching glance into the
depths of his depravity before going, so she asked in her turn:
"You hate all monasteries and convents?"
"It is my vocation to combat all the plagues and ills that afflict
suffering humanity," replied the young surgeon, with malicious
sincerity.
"And you hate religion as well?"
"Well, that depends upon what you call by that name. Convents and
religion are very different things, you know."
This was too much for the nun-elect. She hastened her steps, in order
to escape from so dangerous a neighbourhood; but she gained nothing by
this strategy. Max immediately fell into her pace, and they continued
side by side as before.
"You are of a contrary opinion, of course," he went on, no reply from
her being forthcoming; "but you have been brought up in a different way
of thinking, and amid different surroundings from those to which I am
accustomed. As for me, I should like to see all convents----"
"Swept from the face of the earth," put in the young girl, in a
tremulous voice.
"Not exactly that," said practical Max. "It would be a pity to demolish
so many handsome buildings, and their inhabitants might be turned to
some useful account. The nuns, for instance, one might marry off."
"Marry off the nuns!" repeated Agnes, staring at the speaker in
petrified horror and amazement.
"Yes; why not?" he asked, with perfect equanimity. "I don't suppose
there would be much chance of opposition on their part. It really would
be a capital thing to oblige all the nuns to enter into matrimony."
Agnes must have felt some vague fear that the fate with which her
future sisters in the faith were menaced might suddenly overtake
herself, for now she fairly began to run--in vain, for Max ran also.
"The notion is not so dreadful as you fancy. Every sensible person gets
married, and the great majority find it answer. It is really
unpardonable to instil into a young girl's mind such a horror of things
which come as a matter of course, and which---- Yes, Fraeulein, we must
stop a minute now and rest. I have no breath left. Thank God, your
lungs are still as sound as a bell, or they could not have stood that
rapid charge."
Agnes stopped likewise, for she too was panting for breath. Her cheeks,
usually so pale, were rosy now with the exertion, and the bright colour
suited her delicate little face most admirably. Dr. Brunnow perceived
this, but it did not tend to soften his mood. On the contrary, he
frowned reprovingly as he caught the girl's wrist, and proceeded to
feel her pulse.
"Why heat yourself in this most unnecessary manner? I told you you were
to be careful and to avoid fatigue. You will go home slowly now, and I
must beg that when you go out for a walk you will choose some warmer
covering than this thin mantle. Persevere with the medicine I
prescribed for you, and, for the rest, I can only repeat my former
instructions--air, exercise, cheerful occupation for the mind. Will you
follow out all this punctually?"
"Yes," whispered Agnes, altogether intimidated by the tone of command
assumed by the young doctor, who, despite her father's august
prohibition, still played the part of family physician, and who held
her little hand so firmly in his while speaking.
"I shall depend on your promise. As to my patient down yonder, we can
share the treatment between us. Prepare the woman for the next world by
all means, if you wish. I will do what I can to keep her in this as
long as possible, and I think her husband and children will be grateful
to me for it. I wish you good-morning, Fraeulein."
With that he took off his hat, bowed, and, turning, struck off into the
road which led to the town, while Agnes pursued her way home. Obedient
to the command laid upon her, she walked slowly at the regulation pace;
but, inwardly, her spirit revolted against this Dr. Brunnow. He
certainly was a dreadful person, without religion, without principles
of any sort, sneering at the most sacred things, and so rough and
unfeeling in his manner withal! But, indeed, what could one expect from
the son of a man who had wished to upset Church and State, and who had
communicated to his children the same pernicious tendencies? The
Councillor had related to his daughter the story of the exile's crimes,
painting them in the blackest colours. She was altogether of his
opinion that both Brunnows, father and son, were to be held in
abhorrence; at the same time, she resolved to pay a visit to the sick
woman on the morrow. It was obviously her duty to counteract, so far as
in her lay, the influence of this doctor, who might, possibly, cure his
patients, restoring them to bodily health, but who, while so doing,
endangered their souls' salvation by declaring all spiritual
consolation to be quite "superfluous."