Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  It was necessary that she should be allowed some repose after the state of excitement to which she had put herself, and half-past five was the hour named. Dr. Davenal and Mark appointed to be with her then.

  “Mark,” asked the doctor, as they walked away together, “are you sure of yourself?”

  Dr. Davenal had had no experience hitherto of Mark Cray’s skill as a surgeon, except in common cases. All critical operations, both at the Infirmary and in private practice, the doctor took himself. Mark looked at the doctor in surprise as he heard the question.

  “Sure! Why, of course I am. It’s quite a simple thing, this.”

  “Simple enough where the hand is experienced and sure,” remarked the doctor. “Not so simple where it is not.”

  “Of course I have not had your experience, Dr. Davenal; but I have had quite sufficient to ensure my accomplishing this, perhaps as skilfully as you could.”

  Mark spoke in a resentful tone; he did not like the reflection that he thought was cast upon him by the question. Dr. Davenal said no more. He supposed Mark was sure of his hand’s skill. “I shall give her chloroform,” resumed Mark.

  “No!” burst forth Dr. Davenal. He could not have interrupted more impetuously had he been interposing to dash it from her lips. He believed that Lady Oswald would be a very unfit subject for chloroform: one of those few to whom it is not safe to administer it; and he explained this to Mark Cray.

  Mark turned restive. Strange to say, he, who had hitherto been content to follow in the medical steps of Dr. Davenal, watching his treatment, pursuing the same, more as a pupil takes lessons of a master than as a man in practice for himself, seemed inclined to turn restive now. Did Mark Cray, because he had married the doctor’s niece, had become connected with him by private ties, was now a more equal partner, fully recognised — did he deem it well to exercise that right of independence which we all love, for it is inherent in the hearts of the best of us, and to stand up for his own ways and his own will?

  “I like chloroform,” he said. “I consider it one of the most blessed inventions of the age.”

  “Undoubtedly; where it can be safely used.”

  “I have used it fifty times,” rejoined Mark.

  “I have used it fifty and fifty to that,” said the doctor, good-humouredly. “But, Mark, I never used it in my life upon a doubtful subject, and I never will use it upon one.”

  “What do you call a doubtful subject?”

  “What do I call a doubtful subject?” repeated the doctor. “You know as well as I. How many patients has chloroform killed? Upon certain natures” —

  “Very few,” interrupted Mark.

  “Very few, as compared to the whole,” acquiesced the doctor. “You may administer chloroform with perfect safety to ninety-nine patients, and you cannot to the hundredth. Upon certain natures, as I was about to observe, its effects may be fatal. And where there is this doubt, Mark, it should be acted upon.”

  “The cases are so rare.”

  “True. And the important thing for a medical man, in these cases, is to discern where chloroform may be given with safety and where it may not.”

  “It is impossible that he can do that with any certainty.”

  “Not at all,” said Dr. Davenal. “I never knew my judgment fail. I believe it is a gift, this ability to distinguish the subtle difference in natures. Perhaps I may call it instinct, more than judgment, for I think it could not deceive or lead me to an erroneous decision.”

  “I am not sure that I understand you,” said Mr. Cray. “My belief is, that I possess nothing of the sort. I think you must be talking of a species of second sight.”

  “Then, Mark,” was the half-joking answer, “ allow yourself to be guided by my ‘second sight.’ To speak seriously,” the doctor continued, in a graver tone, “I know that there are many practitioners, clever men, who do not possess this peculiar insight into nature. It is a great gift for those who do. It can never be acquired by practice; it must be inherent” —

  “I suppose you think I don’t possess it,” interrupted Mark.

  “I don’t think you do. But for one of us who possesses it, numbers don’t; so it is no disparagement to you to say so. To return to the question: Lady Oswald, in my opinion, would prove an unsafe subject for chloroform.”

  “She will make so much of the pain.”

  “Better that she should make much of it — ay, and feel it — than that any risk should be run. I cannot allow chloroform to be given to Lady Oswald.”

  Mark Cray demurred: not outwardly, for he said not another word; but inwardly. He was of that class of men who disbelieve what they cannot see. Some of us will look into a man’s face and read his character, read him for what he is, as surely and unerringly as we read the pages of a book; but others of us, who do not possess this gift, cannot believe that it exists, laugh at and ridicule the very idea of it. Just so was it with Mark Cray. That assertion of Dr. Davenal’s, that some faculty or instinct within him enabled him to discern where chloroform might and might not be administered, was utterly scouted by Mark Cray. That subtle instinct into nature, that unerring, rapidly-formed judgment of a sick man’s state, the mental grasping instantaneously of the disease and its remedy, Mark Cray possessed not. To the very end of his life he would never learn it. Dr. Davenal said that out of numbers of medical men only one would possess it, and he was right. How many do not possess it, and go on to their career’s end unconscious of their deficiency, they themselves will never know. Mark could see no reason why Lady Oswald should not be eased of her pain by the aid of chloroform; he did not for a moment believe the doctor could; he regarded it as a crotchet, and a very foolish one. But he suffered the question to rest, and supposed he must bow to the decision of his senior partner.

  “Shall I call for you, Mark?” asked the doctor, as they separated. “I shall go up in the carriage.”

  “O no, thank you. I’d as soon walk. You intend to be present?”

  “Of course I shall be,” replied the doctor. “Lady Oswald is my patient, in point of fact — not yours, Mark.”

  “Then I need not ask Berry. I thought of asking him to be present.”

  “You can do just as you please about that. If you like him to look on at you, you can have him. Twenty-five minutes after five, remember, punctual. You’ll want the full daylight.”

  As they parted, a feeling was in Mark’s heart that he would not have liked to confess to the other, and that perhaps he neither cared to encourage nor to dwell upon. He felt perfectly sure of his own skill; he was not nervous; nobody less so; and yet there was a half reluctance in his mind to perform that operation in the presence of Dr. Davenal, the skilled and accomplished operator. Surely the reluctance could only spring from a latent doubt of whether he ought to make so sure of himself! A latent doubt; one not suffered to appear: down far in the depths of his heart it lay — so deep that perhaps Mark thought it was not there at all, that it was only fancy.

  He had a great deal rather have had Berry with him — that he acknowledged openly enough to himself. Surgeon Berry was a man of fair average skill, superior to Mark in experience, and he and Mark were great friends. Did Mark fear that the presence of the more finished and perfect surgeon, with his critical eye, his practised judgment, would render him nervous — as a candidate for the Civil Service examinations will break down, simply because those searching eyes are on him? No, Mark Cray feared nothing of the sort; and he could not have told, had he been pressed, why he would have preferred the absence of Dr. Davenal. He had looked on many a time at the doctor in such cases: but that was a different thing.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Julius Wild. The young man accosted him to inquire if there were any orders — whether he should be wanted.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Cray. “Lady Oswald’s case is fixed for this afternoon. You be up there with the dressings and things.”

  “Very well, sir,” replied the young man, feeling some surprise, for he was not in the ha
bit of attending privately with Dr. Davenal. “Am I to go to Dr. Davenal’s for them?”

  “No. You can get them from the Infirmary.”

  “The Infirmary!” thought Julius Wild to himself. “Can he be going to take the operation?” — for Mr. Cray’s surgical apparatus was kept at the Infirmary. He did not ask: his professional master seemed unusually silent — not to say cross. “ What time?” he inquired of Mr. Cray.

  “Be at Lady Oswald’s a little before half-past — —”

  The blank above is put intentionally, for it cannot be told with certainty what hour was really said by Mr. Cray. In the discussions, upon it that ensued afterwards, Julius Wild declared in the most positive manner that it was six. “A little before half-past six.” Mr. Cray asserted, with equal pertinacity, that he had said five. “A little before half-past five.” Which of the two was right it was impossible to ascertain. Mark Cray said he should not be likely to make the mistake: the time, half-past five, had been just fixed upon with Dr. Davenal, had been repeated by word of mouth, and he had never thought of the hour six at all. There was plausible reason in that, certainly. On the other hand, Julius Wild was known for a clear-headed, steady, accurate young man, and he protested he could stake his life upon his correctness in this instance. He said the thought crossed his mind, when Mr. Cray named it, that half-past six would be the dusk hour; and he rather wondered within himself that it should have been chosen.

  However it may have been, the misapprehension did occur between them.

  When Dr. Davenal entered his own home, dinner had been over some time. It was their custom to dine early on Sunday: and the general rule was, by Dr. Davenal’s wish, never to keep meals waiting for him. Neal admitted him, and then came for orders. Should he bring up the dinner?

  “Not the inner,” said Dr. Davenal; “just a bit of something upon a plate. I am not hungry: I had a late breakfast at Thorndyke. Has anybody been here for me?”

  “No, sir. I think Mr. Cray took your patients. He has been here” —

  “I know all about that,” interrupted the doctor.

  He passed Neal, and went on to the garden-parlour, a favourite room of his daughter’s. She was there alone, seated before the open glass doors. How peaceful it all looked! The green lawn stretching out in front, the bright hues of the autumn flowers, the calm purity of the dark blue sky lying in the stillness of the Day of Rest. Sara Davenal had that good Book upon her lap: but she was not then reading it. She had closed it in deep thought. Her sweet face was turned upwards, her eyes were filled with tears from the intensity of her gaze; it seemed that she was looking for something in the autumn sky. The extreme calm, the aspect of peace, struck forcibly on the senses of Dr. Davenal, and he remembered it in the days to come. It was the last day of peace for him; it was the last day of peace for Sara; henceforth the world was to change for both of them. Ere the morrow’s sun should rise, a great care, a great trouble, would be tugging at their heartstrings; a skeleton would be there to keep; a secret, that must be hidden for very safety’s sake, would have taken up its abode there.

  Dr. Davenal was upon her so quickly that she could not conceal her glistening eyes. She started up to welcome him, and laid down the book. Owing to that most attentive habit of Neal’s, of being on the watch and opening the door before people could get to it, she had not heard him come home.

  “O papa, is it you? You have been away a long while.”

  “Sit down,” he said, pressing her into her chair again. “ What’s the grief, Sara?”

  “No grief, papa. I was only thinking.” —

  “What about? The accident last night?”

  “O no, not that. I hear that everybody’s going on quite well. I was thinking — I was wondering — somehow I often get thinking on these things on a Sunday, when I am sitting alone, and the sky seems so calm and near,” she broke off.

  “Well, what were you thinking?”

  “I was wondering whether they who are gone can look down and see us — see me just as I sit here looking up — whether they can read my thoughts? We seem so divided, papa; you and I and Edward left; mamma and Richard, and the two little ones who were between me and Edward, gone.”

  “Divided for a short while only, child.”

  “Yes, I know. The only one I can remember well is Richard. I am beginning to lose almost all recollection of mamma But Richard — papa, at times I seem to see him before me now!”

  Dr. Davenal turned to the window and stood with his back to Sara, looking out. She repented having spoken of her brother; somehow the words had slipped out in the fulness of her thoughts. Rising, she stole her hand into Dr. Davenal’s.

  “I forgot, papa,” she softly whispered.

  “Forgot what, my child?” he asked. “Nay, it might be just as well if we all spoke more of Richard, instead of shunning his name. Silence will not bring him back to us.”

  “Ah no, it will not!”

  “And when once griefs can be talked of, their sting becomes less poignant. Did the post bring any letters this morning?” the doctor added, after a pause.

  “Not for you, papa. There was one — how could I forget to tell you? — there was one for me from Edward.”

  “And what does he say?”

  “He has not been able to get leave yet At least, from the tenor of his letter, I don’t much think he has asked for it He says there’s a great deal to do; that the preparations are going on very quickly; but no orders have been received yet as to the day for embarking. As soon as they are issued he will let us know.”

  “But he means to come down?”

  “O yes. He will be sure to come, he says, though it should be to arrive by one train and return by the next He writes in great spirits, and asks me — in a joke you know, papa — if I will pack up my boxes and go out with him.”

  “He — What is it, Neal! My dinner?”

  “Yes, sir. It is served.”

  CHAPTER XV.

  MARK CRAY’S MISTAKE.

  EVENING came, and Lady Oswald’s house was prepared for what was going to take place. Dr. Davenal arrived rather before the time appointed, Mr. Cray five minutes after it. Mr. Cray was in a heat, and had evidently come at much speed, conscious probably that the time had expired. Lady Oswald was in her bed-chamber when Mr. Cray came up, Dr. Davenal in the ante-chamber.

  “Where’s Wild?” exclaimed Mr. Cray, throwing his eyes round the room.

  “I have not seen him,” replied the doctor.

  “It is very inattentive of him not to be here. I told him the hour. Have you seen her?” added Mr. Cray, in a whisper.

  “Yes. She is all right. Are you ready?”

  “No, I am not ready,” replied Mr. Cray. “Wild is bringing up the dressings.”

  “I have everything with me,” said Dr. Davenal. “I have brought all.”

  In the room with Lady Oswald was her maid Parkins. And the very moment that Dr. Davenal set his eyes on Parkins’s ashy pale face, he knew that she would be better out of the room than in it He said something to the effect, but Lady Oswald evidently wished for her, and Parkins avowed her intention of being as brave as need be.

  Time was being wasted. Marcus Cray, in a fidgety sort of manner, went down twice after his expected pupil. He opened the hall-door and stood there looking out for him; and he did this twice over, for no sooner did he get up stairs the first time than he went back again. Dr. Davenal could not exactly make him out Mr. Wild was not required in any way; and a half-doubt stole over Dr. Davenal whether Mark Cray could be wilfully prolonging the minutes, as people will put off things they do not care to enter upon, from nervousness, dislike, or other causes. And though he threw the doubt from him as an absurd improbability, he began to wish again to be the operator.

  “Cray, I had better take this.”

  Mark fired up, and spoke out at the top of his voice. He would prefer to take it himself, Dr. Davenal permitting him.

  Spoke out so loud that he was heard by Lady Oswald. She interr
upted the discussion — if discussion it might be called — and settled it. “It should be only done by Mr. Cray.”

  “Very well,” said Dr. Davenal in a low tone to his partner. “Be it so. But why do you wait, Mark?”

  “I want that fellow to be here.”

  “He is not required. We shall have Lady Oswald get exhausted.”

  And Mark Cray, seeing the wisdom of the plea, made no further delay.

  You will not wish to be present at this operation, or to have its details transcribed. Hallingham did not know them for many a long day. But one or two things must be mentioned.

  At the very instant of its commencement, when Mark Cray was bending over Lady Oswald, there came something falling forward to the ground and brushed against him. It was brave Parkins, gone down in a fainting-fit Lady Oswald became agitated; she shrieked out, and would have risen had it been in her power. Dr. Davenal moved round, and bore the senseless Parkins from the room.

  He could not throw her down outside like a log. He had to call some of the household and tell them what to do with her. Then she began to start and kick in incipient convulsions: altogether it was three or four minutes before Dr. Davenal got back to the room. It seemed to be delay after delay, as if the operation was fated not to be begun that day.