DR. LUTTRELL'S FIRST PATIENT.
"Sudden the worst, turns the best to the brave,"--_Browning_.
Olivia felt as if she were dreaming as she followed the little
procession down the dark garden-path. Once she pinched her wrist
slightly to assure herself that she was awake. Mrs. Crampton held the
lantern, and the cook and the two maids carried the arm-chair, with
jolting uneven footsteps, that brought a suppressed groan to Mr.
Gaythorne's lips. As they lifted him on the couch he looked so white
that Olivia thought he was going to faint, and begged the housekeeper
to give him some wine; he was evidently in severe pain.
"It would be better not to touch the foot until the doctor comes," she
observed. And then Mrs. Crampton looked perplexed.
"My master does not hold with doctors, ma'am. I don't remember one
ever crossing the threshold since poor Miriam had typhoid fever. The
foot is swelling already, and it will be a job to get the boot off.
Ah, I thought so"--as Mr. Gaythorne winced and motioned her away--"he
will be afraid of one touching it!"
"My husband lives just opposite--the corner house with the red lamp in
Harbut Street. He is a doctor and very clever, and I am nearly sure
that he is in just now." Olivia spoke a little breathlessly and
anxiously; then she bent over the old man.
"If Mrs. Crampton does not know of another doctor would you mind one of
the maids running across the road for Dr. Luttrell? You are suffering
so much, and your foot ought to be treated at once. It is impossible
for any one to know if it be only a sprain until the boot is removed.
You fell so heavily that perhaps a small bone might be broken."
"Yes--send--send," returned the invalid, irritably. "Clear the room,
Crampton. You know that I hate to have a parcel of women round
me.--There is no need for you to go, madam"--with an attempt at
civility as Olivia was about to withdraw at this plain speaking. "Give
the lady a chair, Phoebe."
But Olivia, who had excellent tact, only smiled pleasantly, and shook
her head.
"I think it will be best for me to send the doctor across, there is
nothing that I can do for you until he comes."
She took the old man's hand as she spoke and pressed it gently.
"I am so sorry to leave you in such pain, but I hope you will soon be
relieved. Perhaps you will not mind my inquiring another day, but a
stranger is only in the way to-night."
Olivia's soft, well-modulated voice was so full of kindly sympathy,
that Mr. Gaythorne opened his weary eyes again.
"Thank you," was all he said; but he watched her keenly as she crossed
the long room.
Olivia walked so quickly that she was almost out of breath when she
reached her own door. The dining-room looked cold and comfortless.
Martha was on her knees before the fireplace trying to revive the
blackened embers with the help of the kitchen bellows, and Dr.
Luttrell, with a tired face and puckered brow, was watching the
proceedings somewhat impatiently. A tallow candle was guttering
uncomfortably on the table.
"Is the fire out? Oh, Marcus, I am so sorry, but Martha and I will
soon put things to rights. Will you go across to Galvaston House at
once, please?"--and here Olivia's voice was full of suppressed
excitement. "Mr. Gaythorne has slipped against the curb and hurt his
foot; he is in great pain. I have been helping him, and then I said I
would send you. I have left the gate open so you can just go up to the
door."
Marcus listened to these details with an astonished face; then he
caught up his black bag and nodded acquiescence. The tired frown left
his face, and he moved away with his quiet, professional step.
Olivia watched him from the doorstep. As she closed the door after
him, she could have clapped her hands with sheer delight and
excitement. It was her doing that Marcus had his first patient. Those
foolish maids would never have thought of sending for him. Dot was
awake and singing to herself in her usual chuckling fashion in the
firelight, but Olivia had no time to play with her pet.
"The bellows are no good, Martha," she said, quickly. "You must just
fetch a bundle of sticks and a newspaper, and relay the fire, while I
kindle the lamp and set the table for tea; the room feels like a vault."
"There is a good fire in the kitchen, ma'am, if you want to make
toast," observed Martha, rising reluctantly from her knees; "I have
been ironing Miss Baby's pinnys." Olivia, who was drawing the heavy
curtain across the window, was relieved to hear this.
In another quarter of an hour the little room wore a more cheerful
aspect. The sticks crackled and blazed lustily; the green-shaded lamp
diffused a mellow light. The tea-tray was set and the plate of French
toast was frizzling gently on a brass trivet. At the sound of her
master's footstep Martha had orders to fill up the teapot and boil the
eggs.
After this Olivia played with Dot, and undressed her, and then brought
her in to say good-night to her father. But she waxed sleepy long
before he let himself in with his latch-key.
Marcus paused on the threshold a moment as though something struck him.
Olivia's face looked fair and sweet as she sat in her low chair with
the sleepy child in her arms. She put back her head with a soft
questioning smile as he bent down to kiss her face.
"Dot is nearly asleep, but I had not the heart to put her in her cot
until you had seen her; tea is quite ready, and Martha is boiling some
new-laid eggs. Aunt Madge has sent you, too, a pot of her home-made
marmalade, because she knows how fond you are of it. Sit down and
begin, I shall not be a moment," and Olivia's voice was so full of
suppressed excitement, that Marcus laughed as he drew his chair to the
table; he was tired and hungry, but he no longer felt impatient and
depressed.
"Now tell me everything," she exclaimed, when she came back. "What
have you done? Was the foot very bad? Will you have to go to
Galvaston House again?"
"Rather!" returned Marcus; "it is a pretty bad sprain, I can tell you.
Why, I should not be surprised if Mr. Gaythorne is laid up for the next
two or three weeks; he is not in good condition and the shaking and
fright have upset him. He will want good nursing and plenty of
attention, as I told his housekeeper. I am going again early in the
morning."
"And was he civil to you? Mrs. Crampton says he hates doctors," and
Olivia's tone was a trifle anxious.
"Well, he was a bit grumpy at first, but I had my work to do, and took
no notice, but when I had helped him upstairs and put him comfortable
for the night, he waxed a shade more gracious and thanked me quite
civilly. I fancy he is a character and has lived so long alone that he
has grown morose and unsociable. That blind hound of his followed us
upstairs and would not leave him. Did you notice him, Livy?"
"Yes; and is it not a nice house, Marcus? That library is a beautiful
room. All those hundreds of well-bound books, and the massive oak
furniture. I had not time to notice things, but I could not help
feeling how deliciously soft and warm the carpets felt to one's feet,
and then those lovely rugs and skins in the hall."
"His bedroom was just as luxurious. Mr. Gaythorne is evidently a rich
man, though he keeps no carriage. Mrs. Crampton told me so. He is
very fond of flowers; there is a sort of conservatory on the first
floor full of beautiful plants, and an alcove where he can sit and
enjoy them. I could not help stopping a moment to admire them, but
Mrs. Crampton did not invite me to go in. You may depend upon it the
old gentleman is a strict martinet, and rules his household with a rod
of iron. Mrs. Crampton seems a good creature, but he spoke pretty
sharply to her once or twice."
"But he was in such pain, Marcus."
"Yes, my dear, I know that. Oh, by-the-bye, he sent his compliments to
you. 'I am greatly indebted to Mrs. Luttrell, and I trust that I shall
soon have an opportunity of thanking her properly for her kind
helpfulness.' There, Livy, now we shall hear no more of the Nihilist
or the Roman priest."
Dr. Luttrell was in spirits; it was easy to see that. The first
patient, the first brief, the first book--aye, and the first love.
What a halo remains round them!
Our first-fruits may be immature, unripe, but to us they have a goodly
flavour, a subtle, sweet aroma of their own. All through his
successful life Dr. Luttrell will look back to this evening as the
turning-point of his career, when; he stood cold and tired watching
Martha's bellows, and his wife's voice with a triumphant ring in it had
called to him from the threshold.
Marcus's first piece of good luck had so absorbed them that it was some
time before Olivia remembered to tell him about Aunt Madge's present.
Marcus forgot to go on with his tea when he saw the little heap of
coins in his wife's hand. Martha's wages, Dot's pelisse, and even the
gloves and new hat-trimming were all duly canvassed. When Marcus said,
abruptly, "Aunt Madge is a trump," his glistening eyes were eloquent
enough. They had so much to discuss that it was nearly bedtime before
he offered to go on with the book he was reading aloud, but after all
they were neither in the mood for other people's stories.
In youth life is so interesting. No chapters of past memories, no wide
experiences are so beguiling and absorbing. "Oh, we lived then." How
often we hear that phrase, as the old man looks back over a long life,
to the time when lad's love filled his days with sunshine.
When Marcus lay awake that night there was no deadly coldness at his
heart, no lurking demon of despondency, waiting for the small dark
hours to assail him. On the contrary, hope with seraph wings fanned
him blissfully. Marcus Luttrell was young, but he was no coward. For
two years he had waited patiently until the tide should turn. "Wait
till the clouds roll by," he used to say, cheerily, but only his wife
guessed how he was really losing heart, as day after day and month
after month passed and no paying patients presented themselves at the
corner house at Galvaston Terrace.
Olivia was at the window the following morning with Dot in her arms.
As Dr. Luttrell, with his shabby black bag crossed the road, he looked
back once, and Dot kissed her dimpled hand to him. Olivia, who admired
her husband with all her honest girlish heart, watched eagerly until
the slight, well-built figure passed between the stone lions.
"If he were only a little older-looking," she thought, regretfully, but
his smooth face and fair hair gave him a boyish look.
It was absurd, of course, but she could settle to nothing until he came
back; but Marcus, who had a bad accident case on his mind, was in too
great a hurry to satisfy his wife's curiosity. "The foot was going on
as well as he expected, but Mr. Gaythorne was unable to leave his bed.
He was going again in the evening, and now he must be off to the model
lodging-house to see if the poor fellow had pulled through the night."
Olivia had planned out her morning. She had her marketing to do, and
her purchases to make. Then it was only right to go round and tell
Aunt Madge of the wonderful piece of good fortune that had befallen
them.
Mrs. Broderick was unfeignedly pleased. "Still, Olive," she remarked,
with commendable prudence, "one swallow does not make a summer."
"No, Aunt Madge, of course not; but, as Marcus says, one patient brings
others. Galvaston House is a big place, and when the neighbours see
him going in and out, it will be a sort of testimonial; besides, I
shall quote Deb's favourite proverb, 'Every mickle makes a muckle.'
Now I really must go, for I want to cut out Dot's pelisse."
"And the dinner, Olive; are you sure it will go round to-day?"
Then Olivia laughed in a shamefaced way.
"Yes, indeed; I have been dreadfully extravagant, and we are going to
have steaks and chips because it is Marcus's favourite dish, and Martha
does it so well. There is a whole pound of steak and just a little
over. I saw it cut myself, and it was such good weight." And
hesitating a little, "There are currant dumplings too."
"Come--this is feasting indeed!"
But Aunt Madge smiled a little sadly when she found herself alone.
"Does Olive half realise how happy she is!" she said to herself. "She
is a rich woman in spite of all her poverty and cares. When one has
youth and love and health and a good conscience, every day is a feast
and a delight. One day Marcus will drive in his carriage and pair. He
is a clever fellow and there is real grit in him, and people will find
it out, they always do. And Olive will wear silk dresses, and get
stout with prosperity and good living; but I doubt if she will be quite
as happy as she is to-day--cutting out Dot's pelisse, and enjoying her
day-dreams."
And very probably Mrs. Broderick was right. Marcus was more
communicative that evening when he returned from his second visit to
Galvaston House. Mr. Gaythorne was not exactly an ideal patient; he
had a will and a temper of his own, and already his opinion clashed
with his doctor's.
Marcus had laid great stress on perfect rest. He wished his patient to
remain in bed for the next two or three days, but Mr. Gaythorne
perversely refused to do anything of the kind; he would put on his
dressing-gown and lie on the couch. He hated bed in the daytime--it
made him nervous, and spoilt his night's sleep.
"I shall have to give in to him," went on Marcus, a little irritably.
"If I were in good practice I should just throw up the case. 'My good
sir,' I should say, 'if you will not follow my directions it will be
useless for me to prescribe for you. My professional reputation is at
stake, and I cannot stand by and see you retard your cure.' Can't you
fancy me saying it, Livy?"--and Marcus tossed back his wave of hair in
his old boyish way.
"Yes, dear; but people will soon find out what a splendid doctor you
are; and so that poor glazier in the Models will recover, you think?"
"Yes, I hope so; the chances are in his favour, poor chap; it was hard
lines crashing through the roof of that conservatory. If I had not
been on the spot he would have bled to death before they could have got
him to a hospital. You might go and see them, Livy; they are decent
people. She is a pleasant, hard-working young woman, and they have two
little children, and the place is as clean as possible. I told Mr.
Gaythorne about them just to amuse him, but he only grunted and looked
bored. By-the-way, you are right in one of your surmises--he has
bought your favourite picture of the Prodigal Son. It was on a chair
beside his bed, and he consulted me as to where he could have it hung.
I was going to suggest over the mantel-piece, but then I saw there was
a large picture there with a silk curtain over it."
"That must be his wife's picture, Marcus. How nice of him to have
curtains over it!"
"Very nice if we could be sure that Mr. Gaythorne has been married and
had a wife," he returned, a little dryly; "but I should not be
surprised to find that he was an old bachelor; he is far too fussy and
precise for a widower. But, my dear child, we are getting into very
gossiping ways, and I must really get on with that book Aunt Madge lent
us." And then Olivia consented to hold her tongue and let him read
aloud to her as usual.